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MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


A STORY OF 

BUTLER'5 REIGN IN NEW 0RLEAN5 


By MRS. C. C. SCOTT. 

Author of ^^Maws Jeemsf ^'■Render Unto CcesarU 
'•'■Little Miss Bettief etc, , 

^ ' C3uv^<-x 


Copyrighted December^ i8qi, by Author. 


LITTLE ROCK, ARKANSAS; 
PRESS OF 

Gazette Publishing Company. 
1894. 








TO THK 


Knights of the Cross of Saint Andrew, 


TO THAT 


Noble Army of Heroes 


WHO WORE THE GRAY, 

THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS LOVINGLY' DEDICATED. 


Arkadelphta, Arka^tsas, 
Marchy i8q4. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


A STORY OF THF SOUTH. 


CHAPTER I. 

“While the perfumed ligchts 
Stole through the mist of alabasta lamps, 

And every air was heavy with the sighs 
Of orange groves, and music from sweet lutes 
And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth 
I’ the midst of roses.” 



ELESTE had just said g-ood-bye to he:- 


lover. She had borne up bravely, my 
father said, when she joined us on the front 
veranda — after tarrying- a little while on the 
west porch with her head on Honorine’s shoul- 


der. 


I heard my mother call Celeste “a phan- 
tom of delig-ht.” I knew- she was more than 
that, she was a sunshiny, clear-headed g-irl. 
She was prime mover in all my pleasures ; 
while the stately Honorine rarely ever de- 
scended from her dig-nity to recog-nize my 
presence. 

Of course I loved Celeste the better of the 
two, and her sweetheart, Charlie Tremaine 


4 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


was the finest fellow on the river, Grandma 
said. 

I was sorely grieved when they left us to 
go down to the city, for when Celeste was 
gone we missed her. 

After all these years I find there is more 
of sorrow than joy, more of tragedy than of 
comedy in these lives of ours ; though then, in 
my sunny boyhood no dream of aught but 
brightness crossed my horizon. 

Charlie Tremaine belonged to the artillery 
service and had been in love with our Celeste 
ever since she was a school girl. I knew all 
about it, for I used to play I was asleep and 
listen to them talk — in the parlor, on the 
veranda, anywhere, for wheresoever Celeste 
was there I was also. 

“It must be for the last time — I shall not 
see you again for months — if ever again,’’ Cap- 
tain Tremaine, that’s what they called Char- 
lie, was saying. 

“Let’s hope for better things, for better 
times,” Celeste said brightly. “Say you are 
coming home soon — to stay.” 

“There is no such prospect, not a glimmer 
of hope. We are in a deplorable tangle. I am 
glad you do not realize it, my Celeste.” 

Ah, did she not? So bravely hiding her 
own heartaches ! So true an “embassador of a 
most fair mind” — so self-sacrificing in spirit I 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


5 


Celeste’s beautiful unseltisbiaess always re- 
minded me of Georg-e Elliot’s words: “The 
growing- good of the world is partly dependent 
on unhistoric acts, and that things are not so 
ill with you and me as they might have been is 
half owing to the number who lived faithfully 
a hidden life and rest in unvisited tombs.” 

“You will soon be home to stay, Charlie,” 
Celeste declared, winking back her tears. 

“You will think of me often — keep me 
with you by thinking and speaking of me — and 
love me the while, my Celeste?” 

“ ‘Until death do us part,’ ” Celeste’s trem- 
bling voice answered. 

How sweet it was to hear it ! How sweet 
to say it ! This making assurance doubly sure 
in love’s young dream. In those halcyon days 
the beautiful sunshine of youth, the golden 
light, flooded earth, sky and river with warm- 
est, richest glory — painting the clouds of day 
with purest sapphire and suffusing the broad 
river with resplendant crimson sunsets. 

“All the world loves a lover.” A mocking 
bird hearing Celeste’s vow trilled out a shower 
of ecstatic melody by way of applause. The 
little stream that stole its way outside the 
gate gave utferance in sympathetic cadence 
to a merry, babbling minstrelsy as it went 
laughing over the white sands and creeping 
under the willows — through green grasses 


6 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


which fairies mig'ht well have selected for 
nightly revels or idle day-dreamings. 

Laden with all its mists and shadows I 
push back Time’s dusty curtains and see again 
the love-lighted past with all its beauty and 
delight, its splendor, its glad gayety, its sights 
and sounds which rise up clearly, leaving an 
echo in my heart like the “fine horns of Klf- 
land blowing,’’ yet loud enough to fill my 
memory with all the life and glory, the actual 
coloring influence and perfume of that blest 
time, now passed forever — dead in the dust of 
Long Ago, alive only in Recollection. I see 
my beautiful cousin Celeste with her sunny 
hair and childish face standing under the mag- 
nolia at the west gate saying good-bye to her 
soldier lover. His handsome, boyish face now 
lighted with passionate love, now serious with 
the thought of separation and sad forebodings 
for the future, one arm was round Celeste’s 
waist and he held her hand in his. 

“Think of it Charlie, you will be home in 
a little while — to stay. The time will pass on 
wings with you in the whirl and excitement of 
soldier life, and after a while you will come 
home.” 

“ ‘It may be for years,’ my Celeste, ‘and 
it may be forever.* You cannot realize the 
utter hopelessness of our cause — the sadness of 
our parting. It seems cruel to leave you — it 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


1 


would be dishonorable to stay. Celeste, my 
beautiful darling-, it breaks my heart to leave 
you. ‘I did not love thee, dear, so much, loved 
I not honor more.’ ” 

A gun boat, like a great lazy turtle, lay 
asleep just around the bend, and the river was 
in high-wave from the passing boats. Captain 
Tremaine looked at his watch, took Celeste in 
his arms, kissed her cheeks, her lips, her brow, 
but spoke no word. He waved his hand in 
parting after he had mounted his horse, and 
galloped away through the woods. 

Celeste stood leaning on the gate watching 
the scarlet-and-gray figure until it was lost in 
the distance. 

“The Lord bless thee and keep thee,” I 
heard her whisper, as she turned away. I fol- 
lowed her to the west porch where Honorine 
sat. She said not a word, for Honorine scarcely 
ever talked ; but held out her arms for Celeste, 
who cuddled down in her lap and cried on her 
shoulder. My father said Celeste was a brave 
little girl. Honorine said, “Don’t, honey.” 

Soon both were on the front veranda with 
the family. 

I remember that we were a very happy 
family. My father had something pleasant to 
say to each of us, and expressions of apprecia- 
tion makes even very dull people brighter and 
happier. We were a mutual admiration society. 


8 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


for we complimented each other every day upon 
some special point in character or accomplish- 
ment, and my sweet, young- mother and I came 
in for a double share. 

I was particularly fortunate in this respect ; 
for I not only had the admiration of the family, 
but the adoration of every slave in our quarter^ 
Our girls were the handsomest on the river, 
and I was thinking* of how lovely they were, 
when I lay on my loung*e that night. I heard 
Celeste talking. 

“Honorine, do you think it is intended that 
people shall be perfectly happy in this world?” 

“Such a question is hard to answer, honey. 
Sister Mary- Joseph used to tell us that we 
have, under God, our lives in our own hands, 
and that our happiness rests with ourselves. I 
cannot tell what is best for us, weal or woe,^’ 
Honorine answered wearily. 

“Why, Honorine!” 

“We grow careless and selfish in the bright- 
ness of unalloyed pleasure and are elevated, 
lifted out of ourselves, as 'it were, by suffering. 
We are purified by sorrow, honey.” 

I don’t think as much love and tenderness 
was ever expressed in one word as Honorine 
put into that little word “honey.” 

“I know of what you are thinking, Honor- 
kie. I see it in your beautiful eyes every day 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


9 


Do you feel tliat your sorrow has made you 
better — softer?’ ’ 

“I don’t know, honey.” 

“I do. Six months ag^o you would have 
laughed to scorn my grief of to-day. When 
Charlie left me you took me in your arms and 
comforted me. Ah, Honorine! How good you 
are!” 

Celeste took her face in her hands and 
kissed her. 

“You must cheer up, Honorine. Grandma 
will worry over your sadness.” 

“The old heartache has never left me — 
never will, I fear,” sighed Honorine. 

I lay listening, my heart softening towards 
my haughty cousin, when I remembered the 
story of her sad little romance so rudely cut 
short by a Yankee bullet at Shiloh ; for Honor- 
ine’s lover had worn the Gray and had yielded 
up his young life, one of the many victims on 
the altar of freedom. 

He sleeps where he fell. With all his tal- 
ent, aristocratic birth and social standing, 
Honorine’s gray-clad hero filled the grave of a 
Private, and no purer, nobler name could be 
borne in such a struggle for Right and Coun- 
try ; for surely no thought of self mingled its 
alloy with the pure gold of his patriotism. 
Sorrow and anxiety had changed Honorine from 
a careless, happy girl to a statue — a sad-eyed 


10 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


m 

woman whose reserve never melted except to- 
ward her sister. There was a pitiful, weary 
pathos in her pure, pallid face and an anxious, 
touching expression in the great midnight eyes. 
Grandmother said she was young and would 
outlive her sorrow ; but for all that, every one 
could see her solicitude for poor, unhappy 
Honorine. 

For my part, I was always thinking of 
Celeste and Captain Tremaine — of the fine 
times they had promised me when the war was 
over and they were married and living at Es- 
peranza. Captain Tremaine’s plantation. T 
remember once when he was at our house he 
and Celeste were sitting on the settee under 
the trees while I lay on the grass at her feet, 
outside was a deep glade rich in fervid green 
and bright with sunshine. In the distance 
shone the river glittering like a band of silver 
through the willows. 

It was one of those mid-summer days when 
the sunlight lies like a shimmering veil over 
the world — when nature seems breathing and 
palpitating through the heat-mists and a repose 
as profound as death is over all. 

One of the days that fill the soul with a 
nameless devotion and that intangible longing 
for love and beauty which even the happiest 
and most richly endowed among us feel — a pas- 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


11 


sionate yearning- and a painful void, a day 
wherein we live because we feel. 

Captain Tremaine held Celeste’s hand as 
usual. I used to think he was dumb until he 
found Celeste’s hand. 

“I like to watch the sunset with you, my 
Celeste,” he was saying*. “The passing- clouds 
seem to shape themselves into bright prophesies 
for the future, they are as words passing from 
each soul to the other breathing more fervent 
love than our lips can express ; and when I see 
your beautiful face, my Celeste, lighted up with 
the same thoughts that are burning in my 
heart, then I know my thoughts, my hopes and 
prayers have not been in vain.” 

Celeste sat listening with a pleased expres- 
sion. Ghe was fond of Charlie and believed 
all he said. 

“Do you not dream of the future, our fu- 
ture — once as far off as a star in the heavens, 
now so near, a beautiful temple and our feet 
almost on its threshold? Do you think of it, 
my Celeste?” 

“Is it Esperanza you are talking about. 
Captain Charlie?” I asked vaguely, hoping we 
were going to start for that place immediately. 

Celeste laughed. 

“Uncle Ike is calling you, son ; mammy is 
going to the bayou fishing,” she said, and I ran 
to find out \>bat the prospects were. 


12 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


As I passed by them, with mammy, carry- 
ing my rod, I heard Captain Tremaine saying 
very softly: 

“You think, too, as I do, my Celeste, of 
the time when holy words shall add their sanc- 
tity to our mutual love; when you shall wear 
the sacred crown of wifehood. Do not loving 
thchghts of me flit through your heart as 
thoughts of you linger in mine?” 

“i cannot tell, even to myself. I cannot 
whisper the strength, the depth of my affec- 
tion, still less can I express it to you,” I heard 
Celeste say, and noticed how flushed her face 
was. 


CHAPTER II. 

“Oh, dee sun shines brig-ht 
In my ole Kaintuck^^ home 
Hits summah, dee darkey i& 

Dee cawn top ripe and dee — 

What’s dat ?” 

The song suddenly ceased to be resumed with 
the digging. 

“ De cawn top ripe an’ de medder in de bloonty 
Dee birds make music all dee day. ’’ 

A wooly head was bared to the river 
breeze. Leaning his crutch against a tree 
Uncle Ike continued to dig bait, emphasizing 
the words of the melody with a stroke of his 
hoe: 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


IS 


“ Weep no mo ma la.dee, 

Weep no mo'‘ ter day. 

V\\ sing one song f dee ole Kaintuck — 

“You will? Yaas, Ivawd, two song's if 
you doan come on. Here’s me’n leetle 
Mawster er waitin’ dis hour. Come on, sonny. 
Le’s be er g-wine feeshin’. ” 

I held on to the strong*, black hand, while 
Uncle Ike came slowly down the path. 

“Gotty bait ?’’ 

“Yessum.’’ 

“Gotty lines ?” 

“Yessum.” 

“An’ er leettle hook f’ son?” 

“Yessum, in cose.” 

“Den come on, son,” turning to me,, 
“dees feeshes in dat bayou whot’s fa’rly 
stannin’ on der tailses f’ dis man t’ ketch ’em, 
an’ de allygaters ! Uawd ! dee all gwine cry 
an’ beller cos dis man-boy ain’t biggernuff t’^ 
haul t’ dee shore, ” mammy declared. 

“Bet’ n’ let Mawster hyar such chat 
’oman. Mawster ain’t lak our sorter folks; he 
doan know how t’ treat er nigger.” 

Uncle Ike laughed and rattled his fishing 
tackle. 

1^^, Yea verily. “Mawster” was not “like 
our sort of folks,” but “a man’s a man for a’ 
that”. Uncle Ike. “Misson Rene say son’s 
er Dixie boy.” Uncle Ike chuckled as we 


14 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


trudg’ed along, “An’ Missle Es say es how son 
ain’t got nair drap er Yainky blood in ’im. 
Which is yer sonny? Is yer Yainky or Con- 
federick, man? 

Aye, there was the rub? 

I had spent hours in childish thought over 
that momentous question. 

Union or Confederate? 

I was the sole offspring of a Prench-creole 
mother and a New England father, and to 
which .side I owed allegiance I was in doubt. 
My mother was a true daughter of the South, 
and as beautiful as a sunny June morning ; she 
had been born and reared amid surroundings 
of wealth and refinement, her tastes were 
naturally and by education alive to all things 
beautiful and elegant, and furthermore, she had 
been taught by precept and example that a 
descendant of the ancient and aristocratic house 
of Hebert should never soil a finger in manual 
labor. 

Ah, my poor, young mother! 

Your beautiful dreams of life have all come 
true in that land where our lives are made com- 
plete — where there is “no variableness, neither 
shadow of turning.” My beautiful mother had 
toiled not, neither had she spun, but had lived 
a human “lily of the fields.” 

My memories of my childhood are fraught 
with pleasure — intermingled, too, with the 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


15 


most painful reminiscences of my life. My 
father was of the strictest sect of New Eng'land 
blood — a Puritan with a big* P, whom my 
mother first met at a Northern watering* place. 

A mutual attachment was the result of 
the meeting and a hasty marriage the result of 
the mutual attachment. 

My parents resided in my father’s native 
village a few months after the marriage, when, 
pining for her own sunny land, my mother’s 
will prevailed, and they came South to make 
their home. 

I look back now at the character of my 
father with great affection and reverence. He 
was a psychological paradox. His will of iron, 
so uncompromising and unbending, was palli- 
ated by a nature tender, gracious and loving. 

When the occasion demanded he was as 
stern as one of the old Hebrew prophets ; but 
’neath his hard exterior lay a nature grand and 
deep and true. 

I suspect I was a spoiled boy, the hun- 
dreds of our slaves, whom he called “our peo- 
ple,” made me their idol, and bowed down 
with a species of worshipful idolatry at the 
feet of “leetle mawster,” while I loved every 
smiling black face among them. 

Our plantation fronted the grand Missis- 
sippi river. For miles the levee stretched 


16 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


along- its treacherous banks, and back from its 
deep, calm flow lay the fertile valley lands. 

Our residence was an irregular, one-story 
frame house, with broad verandas on every 
side. 

Luxurious and delightful was plantation 
life, but my father sighed for occupation, for 
the practice of his profession, and we lived in 
the city an hundred miles below. 

How I loved the old plantation! 

Every moss-hung oak, green glade and 
bosky glen, and the dear, wrinkled faces of the 
superannuated darkies in the quarter were 
very near my childish heart. 

Back in the distance lay the motionless 
bayou — it might be said asleep ; the bright 
breeze that sung its soft lullaby amid the tree- 
tops disturbed not its placid waters, so that 
the dainty touch of a swallow’s wing set rip- 
pling over its surface more widening circles, 
than ran their tiny lives, until the shores were 
reached, and then all was still again. Look- 
ing toward the glassy surface of the water 
mirrored in faithful duplication were the 
lovely pictures on its borders. 

The rustling leaves of the oaks, with their 
festoons of gray-green moss hanging like 
funeral drapery, 1;,he swaying movement of the 
magnolia and sweet gum foliage, the bending 
grasses, and, looking deeper, over a nether 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


17 


heaven, there floated the same snowy cirri 
which drifted overhead ; even the butterflies 
fluttered from flower to flower beneath the 
surface as they did along- the banks. 

These scenes of my plantation home are 
vividly present, even through the mists of in- 
tervening years. 

Prom the front veranda one could see the 
mighty river, uncoiled like a huge writhing 
serpent, as far as the eye could reach. 

Away across the wide expanse of water 
deep and flowing was the fringed levee of the 
opposite shore, all green with grass and wil- 
lows. The boats plowed their way up and 
down the mighty river, leaving in their wake 
huge, threatening waves. 

The plantation house was built high upon 
pillars of brick in a grove of giant magnolias. 

In the yard the glistening leaves of the 
magnolias were dashed with burning bits of 
color, where the rose vines clambered among 
the fragrant blossoms of white, the trees were 
full of birds and a thicket of red, white and 
yellow roses flourished at the end of the 
veranda with an under-current of rich green 
grass and all these under a dome of purest 
sapphire. 

I had returned from fishing this never-to- 
be-forgotten afternoon in the balmy spring- 
2 


18 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


time ; we were all sitting on the front veranda 
in view of the broad river. 

Apollo, the plantation blacksmith, came up 
the walk and reaching over a clump of honey- 
suckles handed my father a letter. My father 
arose and went into the house, my mother fol- 
lowed him. 

After an early tea we were again on the 
front veranda, my father looked pale and 
sterner than ever; my mother’s dark eyes were 
full of unshed tears. 

Again the tall figure of Apollo stood 
before us. 

“Well, Apollo?” spoke my father inter- 
rogatively. 

“What is it?” 

“I wan’t t’ see you a minute, please, 
mawster,” the negro answered, his yellow face 
showing a troubled expression as he came 
nearer. 

“Very well,” my father replied as he 
arose. 

“Don’t go,” whispered my mother, catch- 
ing his hand. 

“Only to the gate, dear.” 

“Take Harry with you, then.” 

I grasped his strong right hand and ran 
down the steps to be gathered into Apollo’s 
brawny arms, then hoisted to his shoulder. 

“Mawster,” spoke this modern Vulcan. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


19 


“You will have to talk to the nig’gers your- 
self, I am willing to abide by what you said 
and so is half the other men, but the younger 
ones ain’t so sure. Can’t you speak to them 
and explain as you did to us?” 

My father hesitated a moment, and then 
replied : “I think it would be the better plan. 
Will you ring the bell?” 

Back into the yard we went, Apollo depos- 
iting me upon the steps. 

A moment later the plantation bell was 
tolling its message to every slave in our quar- 
ter, and in half an hour the back yard was 
thronged with a sea of faces, black, copper- 
colored, mulatto and octoroon. My father 
spoke to them from the veranda ; he reminded 
them of their mutual promises ; he would keep 
his to the letter and expected the same of them. 
He besought them to be patient — in a few 
weeks they would all be freedmen. 

The Confederate forces at Forts Jackson 
and St. Phillip were in a state of mutiny. My 
father then thanked the throng before him for 
their obedience to his wishes, their respectful 
care of my mother and affection for me. 

“And who among you,” he cried, raising 
me in his arms — “who among you promise to 
protect my wife and boy? Let those who make 
this promise raise their right hands !” 


20 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


There under the magnolias, in the filtering 
moonlight, was their fealty sworn. 

“Gawd bless mawster!’’ Uncle Ike cried, 
waving his hat as he leaned on his crutch. 
“Gawd bless mawster!’’ an hundred voices 
echoed as they dispersed to their homes. 

Later on as I lingered near a window, I 
heard: 

“Oh, dee sun shines bright 
In niy ole Kaintuck^^ home. 

Hit's summah, dee darkey is gay. 

Dee cawn top ripe an’ de ntedder — ” 

fainter grew the notes and I knew that Uncle 
Ike was digging bait for a moonlight fishing 
excursion on the bayou. When at last I was 
sent to bed I heard my mother’s sobs and my 
father’s voice low and tender as if trying to 
comfort her. I tossed restlessly. 

“Harold, my son,’’ called my father. 

“Yes, papa.’’ 

“You will take good care of your little 
mother while I am away?” 

“Where are you going, papa?” I asked, 
running into my mother’s room. 

“My dear little son, papa’s bright little 
boy!” he said caressingly. 

“Where do you go, papa? Are you a Con- 
federate at Port Jackson?” I asked from the 
denseness of my ignorance. 

“God forbid!” he exclaimed earnestly. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


21 


A hysterical laug*h half strangled my 
mother. 

“Harold, you are my child and, therefore, 
belong to the Union — so does your mother for 
she, too, is mine, my own little wife.” 

“I’m no Yankee, papa,” I stoutly asserted. 

“Who said you were not?” 

“Honorine says I am a Dixie lad, and 
Celeste told me I wasn’t at all Yankeeish. 
What am I, papa?” I anxiously inquired. 

“You are the dearest, brightest boy alive. 
Your grandmother and the girls will probably 
meet you in the city. Good-night, my boy. 
May God* in His wisdom direct and keep your 
ways. Harry, my darling, kiss papa and run 
along to bed.” 

I had never seen him so moved, his voice 
was unsteady, and a tear dropped upon my 
mother’s hair as he held her close in his arms. 
I was consumed with curiosity. What did it 
all mean? 

My mother’s sobs reached my ears and it 
made me very unhappy to see her so distressed, 
and to this day I am utterly demoralized by a 
woman’s tears. 

After an hour’s vain endeavor to sleep I 
arose and started into my mother’s room. In 
passing a window I savv Apollo’s face pressed 
against the upper sash. Tapping gently to 
attract my attention he beckoned me. 


22 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Sonnie,” he whispered. 

I stepped outside and caught his hand. 

“Son, wake your papa, easy now, honey.’' 

A slight noise behind me caused me to 
turn, there were several armed men stealing 
softly through the cape jessamine hedge not a 
dozen yards away. 

“Jayhawkers! My Gawd!” Apollo ex- 
claimed under his breath. 


CHAPTER III. 

“We’ll hunt no mo’ for de ’possum an’ de coon, 

On de medder, de hill an’ de sho’; 

We’ll sing no mo’ by de glimmer er de moon 
On de bainch by de ole cabin do’.’’ ' 

How welcome was the sound of the old, 
cracked voice as Uncle Ike hobbled up the lane 
with his string of fish and merry heart! 

Apollo stood like a brazen statue, the men 
stole around the house in single file and silently 
made their way to Mr. Lascelle’s, the overseer, 
house lower down in the yard. 

Apollo lost not a moment. As stealthily 
as an Indian he moved inside my room and 
softly called my father. 

“Mawster! please hurry f’ Gawd’s sake. 
The Jayhawkers are in the yard, your horse is 
ready.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


23 


“All right, Appollo, don’t get excited; I 
am coming in a moment.” 

A front window of my mother’s room 
slowly opened and mammy stepped in, her 
black face almost gray with terror. 

“Dar you stan’!” she exclaimed, pointing a 
finger of scorn at my father. 

“Dar you stan’, er kissin’, an’ er billin’ an’ 
er cooin’! I lay you won’t feel so lovin’ when 
dem white trash what’s er sarching de quatter 
gits a rope roun’ your naik. Huk kom da ain’t 
done swung you, ole Ike tell de head leader 
you’s done gone.” 

“Mawster! come on, de boat’s cornin’ 
’round de bend,” urged Apollo. 

“G’long!” mammy said savagely. 

A hurried farewell and my father was 
gone. My mother lay pale and silent on her 
couch, a crushed and broken creature. Mammy 
took me on her lap and sat near my mother the 
remainder of the night. 

Another day brought my maternal grand- 
mother, who, in herself, was a social treasure. 

Reader, did you know that staunch friend, 
your grandmother? She, whose patience like 
the dear Lord’s mercy, “endureth forever;” 
whose withered yet ever willing hands swept 
clear the rough paths for your little feet; 
whose grand, thinketh-no-evil soul, foretold all 
usefulness and happiness for you ; whose par- 


24 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


tial eyes saw only purest motives and loftiest 
ambitions in your wildest escapades ; whose 
abundant love threw an immeasurable, spotless 
mantle over your uprising's and your sitting's 
down? My grandmother had come and my cup 
of content was full. 

Three days after the departure of my 
father, we were visited by a squad of despera- 
does in the uniform of Confederate cavalry, 
who inquired for my father. 

I was shocked at the unblushing false- 
hoods couched in Apollo’s replies to their ques- 
tions, but made no comment. The cavalry 
men ransacked the whole place, except my 
mother’s room, the house was closely searched 
as was the quarter, the out-buildings, and even 
the boat-house on the lake. 

Apollo stood guard at the door of my 
mother’s apartment and resisted their every 
attempt to enter. 

“How was it, Apollo?” asked my grand- 
mother, when the soldiers had galloped down 
the levee road. “How was it that you dared 
oppose these men? How they ride!” 

“You see, ole mistis, I had de biggest 
comp’ny of men — more’n de white Cap’n got.” 
The negro laughed. 

“I see ; but your men are not armed.” 

“Doncher be no ways oneasy, mistis,” said 
black Ned assuringly, as he exhibited a re- 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


25 


volver. “We all got dese leetle dawgs an’ der 
barks plum sweet also.” 

“Where did you get that pistol, Ned?” 
grandmother asked, as the negro walked away 
chuckling at his conceit. 

“Jake, where did you get yours?” she in- 
quired of a tall, young Hercules. 

“Laws a mussy! I got mine where Ned 
got hissen, mistis.” 

“Where?” 

“I axes yer pardner, mistis; but — er-rer 
— wellum, yer sees es how — er — er — rer we 
cain’t tell tales outen school. Yer recom- 
mends, mistis.” Jake bowed profoundly. 

“I understand you, Jake,” grandmother’s 
voice and manner spoke volumes. 

“Mistis!” exclaimed Jake with another 
bow, “I sholy does ax yer pardner!” 

“Hush, boy!” Apollo commanded. “Shet 
up, an’ g’long drive them hawses furder 
down in the cane an’ look sharp after them 
mules too.” 

“Where is Mr. Lascelle?” 

“Gone down t’ the lower fields. Mistis 
we promised mawster to protect young miss, 
an’ the boy — sonny, here, an’ we got the 
shootin’ iyons to do it with. You see, mistis.” 

“Very good, Apollo; you can go now.” 

Apollo walked down the steps smiling 
and well pleased. 


26 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


A veritable tower of strength his tall 
athletic figure seemed as he leisurely sauntered 
off under the magnolias; he was above ordinary 
intellectually, and was the plantation oracle» 
What “Unk Pollus” did not know, the other 
negroes disdained to learn. 

A week later we still lingered at the plan- 
tation, awaiting my mother’s convalescence. I 
was happy in the companionship of the multi- 
tude of littie darkerys that swarmed about our 
quarter. One of our specially enjoyable amuse- 
ments, was that of holding revival meetings. I 
smile now to remember my peculiar success in 
“calling up mourners.” 

Negroes are very imitative and these little 
negroes would mimic perfectiy the words and 
gestures of their elders. I well remember how 
my heart swelled with pride on one occasion, 
when a little darkey invited me to “meetin” 
and said to my grandmother: “We wants son, 
cos he’s our main shouter,” 

I felt quit large when mammy remarked, 
“Son kin sho chaw glory,” as I ran down the 
back steps. 

“Our folks is orful upsot, ole mistis!” 
Uncle Dave suddenly announced, thrusting his 
snow-besprinkled head through the honey- 
suckle foliage. 

“Dey’s plum tarryfide. Ef you’d be so 
bleegin ole mistis es t’ gib dem varmints er 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


27 


talk bout de way some is leavin’ der wife an’ 
chilien hit mought do ’m some good. Dat 
nigger Gabe an’ tother niggers, too, done say 
er farewell t’ dee fambly a’ready. Lawd sabe 
my rotten ole soul!” 

“What do they mean. Uncle David?” 

“Gawd knows, I nebber seed sicher pack 
er varmints — plum dawgs! Wontcher talk t’m 
please ’m, ole miss?” 

“Very well, I will talk if they will listen. 

My grandmother knew the great influence 
she held over our people and was anxious to do 
what she could for them; indeed, in these un- 
certain, troublous times every good influence 
needed. 

Four white people, my grandmother, 
mother, Mr Lascelle, the overseer, and myself 
were on this plantation among hundreds of 
half-rebellious slaves. 

The older ones were well behaved and in 
the main easily managed; but the younger men 
sighed for pastures new, and longed talked of 
freedom. 

In half an hour the backyard was again 
thronged with our people. 

My grandmother spoke to them from an 
open window, her dear, sweet face wore a 
serious expression and her eyes were wet with 
tears: 

“My people,” she began, “I was not born 


28 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


among* you; but m3^1ife and yours have traveled 
the same path for many a year. We were 
young together, and I have grown old with the 
same kind black faces which knew my youth 
still around me. We believe in each other, you 
and me, we have always been friends. 

“As mistress and servant, good will and 
good faith have existed between us; you have 
worked faithfully and cheerfully for me and 
mine. I, in turn, have abundantly supplied 
your wants and comforts; you have had no care 
for the morrow, and now that the tie of owner- 
ship is about to be broken, the bonds of friend- 
ship still remain, and I hope will continue 
through the years that are crowning our heads 
with silver, on to the time when the great 
Master shall call us all to Himself. I feel 
attached to you all, and take a personal interest 
in all that concerns you. You have helped me 
rear my orphan children, and — “ 

“Dot wos me; ‘taint nobody but me an’ ole 
Sar’ann help riz dem chillen!” Mammy inter- 
rupted, with an air of pride; “Go on, ole mis- 
tis, please’m.” 

“Freedom gives you the rights of American 
citizens — heretofore you have had no name, no 
country. Now all is changed, and you are as 
responsible for j^our words and deeds as any 
white man. Take my advice, make for your- 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


29 


selves good, honest names, and then work hard 
to keep them.” 

“Ole mis kin talk; but she calls herse’f 
better’n we is, ef we is free.” This was from 
our housemaid, Rosetta, who had lately grown 
careless and impudent. 

“I am your superior now and always,” 
continued my grandmother, looking straight 
into Rosetta’s face. “I shall never meet any 
of you on equal ground, but shall always be 
glad to hear of your successes in life. Your 
words and actions reflect blame or praise on me 
as on yourself, for I have been your mistress. 
Did you ever think of that? No one’s words or 
deeds ever stop with himself; the influence of 
what he has said and done live after him. If 
any one of you are guilty of untruth, or theft, 
or desertion of your family, you bring shame 
and misery and disgrace upon every one of your 
race, and discredit upon my name.” 

“Tell em ’bout dey scanlis doins, mistis. 
Tell dem ashcats ’bout zartin’ dey fambily, an^ 
takin up wid yaller gals,” Uncle Dave said in 
a stage whisper. 

“Mistis skeer’d t’ do dat!” Rosetta boldly 
asserted. 

“Shet up!” Apollo seized the girl roughly 
by the arm, and half dragged her up the steps. 
“Set thar!” he commanded. 

“Ole mis er preacher f’om way back,’^ 


30 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


wheezed a fat old darkey just below the 
window. 

“Huh, I’se glad I got one mo’ moufful de 
gospel br’ade,” Susan Ann said, with a pious 
whine. “Talk on, please’m, mistis.” 

Then in plain, forcible language, my 
grandmother called their attention to the 
holiest of all obligations, the most sacred of all 
responsibilities, those involved in the marriage 
relation. 

She explained to them how binding were 
the marriage vows, and how the neglect of 
them in no wise loosen the bonds, but endan- 
gered truth and honor and even the salvation 
of souls. 

She dwelt upon the beauty and sacredness 
of marriage, its holiness in the sight of God, 
its honor in the estimation of man. 

In soft, glowing colors, she pictured to 
them a happy home — the father fulfilling his 
duty to wife and children, protecting, support- 
ing, guiding them. The mother cherishing, 
loving, ministering, aiding with her slender 
strength and faithful care, the strong arm and 
willing hand on which the burden of their lives 
rest. 

The children, growing up in the sunshine 
of such a home, into honorable men and useful 
women, to reflect credit upon their parents here 
and hereafter, “rise up and call them blessed.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


31 


Then the dear old lady called their minds 
to the reverse side of the picture — the broken, 
desolate home, forsaken by the father or 
mother. She pictured the children growing 
up with uncertain principles, tarnished names 
and shaken morals — taught by example to 
despise the most sacred obligations and to 
count for naught all things pure and holy and 
honorable. 

“How, then,” she questioned, “can you 
fathers betray your trust, and mothers, who 
forsake your holiest duties, answer when the 
book of your life is unsealed, and your account 
called? Can you point to the work your hand 
has wrought and say: ‘Here am I, Lord, with 
the children Thou hast given me.’ With these 
soiled, ruined lives crying out to Heaven 
against you — lives which you, but for careless 
sinfulness and evil tempers, might have reared 
in honor and respectability. Can you expect 
reward or approval on that last day when all 
shall be revealed? Every duty you have cast 
aside, every obligation you have neglected, 
every bond you have broken will surely rise up 
in judgment before you. When the cloak of 
selfishness and untruth is torn away from your 
unclean souls will not the never dying agony 
of torment be preferable to the reali2;ation of 
your wasted time? Oh, my people, like the 
lepers of old you will long for some wilderness 


32 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


into which to flee to hide your unclean souls 
e^en from God’s knowledgfe.” 

Bravely and plainly the dear saint spoke; 
she had their interests near her heart, and 
with a fearless hand swept back the veil of 
sophistry, false reasoning- and excuse which is 
draped so tastefully and deceiving-ly over the 
great social evil of separation and divorce, hid- 
ing with its graceful, shimmering folds the 
sinfulness and the horror of it. She showed 
these people its loathsomeness ; showed it for 
the sickening, noisome thing it is, in all its 
blackness of deformity and disgrace. 

The negroes listened attentively, glancing 
furtively at each other the while. 

The overseer leaned against a pillar of the 
veranda and listened with uncovered head. 

The negroes dispersed, discussing among 
themselves what “ole mistis” had said. 

“Didn’t ole mis sho’ talk f’om way back?” 

“Lawd! I reckon so. Ole miss come f’om 
de Jeems ribber, an’ she’s er lady er qualit}^ 
an’ sterbility ; ole mis ain’t no dago, whatcher 
talkin’ ’bout, nigger!” 

“Well, Mr. Lascelle,” my grandmother 
said, as she appeared on the vera:nda, “did you 
hear my talk to our people?” 

The overseer doffed his hat and replied: 
“The finest sermon I’ve heard for many a year, 
madam.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


33 


“ ‘Pearls before swine,’ do you think?” 

“Well, not with all of them. You have 
g-reat influence with these people, but, madam, 
you’d as well talk to so many mules as to some 
of them. They dont care to live decently, and 
wouldn’t behave if they did care ; they are a 
hard lot, — some of them,” he added. 

“But very loyal?” 

“The majority are, I believe, madam.” 

“You will remain here, Mr. Bascelle?” 

“As long as permitted, madam.” Mr. 
Lascelle glanced at his empty sleeve. 

“So much for the Confederacy,” my 
grandmother said. 

“You will be good enough to occupy this 
house until further instructions. I shall be 
obliged to start for Vicksburg to-morrow. I 
pray God I may not be too late. With Apollo’s 
help I do not think — ” 

“Dey’s two boats stopped at our levee?” 
cried CJncle Dave, excitedly. 

‘•Better git out de way, Mr. L’selle, cos 
dey’s atter you, an’ dey hang you, too, they 
want mawster, an’ dey wants de cotton, too. 
G’long dat swamp, man,” mammy insisted. 

I ran around to the front veranda. Twenty 
men in Confederate uniform walked abreast 
down the broad road from the river. 


3 


34 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Once more we were in our luxurious home 
in the suburbs of the city beside the g'reat 
river. 

I had left the plantation with many mis- 
g’iving's and still remember how, as we steamed 
round the bend, the faint, receding* notes came 
to me: 

“Weep no mo’, ma la’-dee, 

We-ep no mo’ ter day, 

We’ll sing- one song- f’ dee ole — ” 

“Dont’ stan’ dar cryin,’ son, dat’s like er 
— well, hit like er g*al t’ be er cryin’ an er 
snifflin’.” Mammy led me in off the g*uards. 

“What makes Uncle Ike always fishing*?” 
I asked. 

“Br’er Izik g*its ti’de hawg* meat, son. 
Come, le’s stay wid yo’ mudder.” 

My home did not seem the same, and my 
thoughts were of the old plantation. I was 
with my mother in her own room; she lay as 
white and as beautiful as the trumpet-lilies 
outside the open window. A great sorrow had 
fallen upon us and my poor, pale mother had 
lain on her sofa motionless and tearless for 
days. 

After persistent inquiries, I gleaned from 
the servants that my dear father had been ex- 
ecuted by the Confederates as a spy. My 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


35 


childish heart was heavy with grief and resent- 
ment, and I thought how much better it might 
have been had he been a Confederate at Port 
Jackson. 

My pretty orphan cousins, Honorine and 
Celeste, my tutor, whom we knew as Dr. 
Robert, a learned old gentleman of sixty years, 
my mother and myself composed our family. 

Ports Saint Philip and Jackson had sur- 
rendered to the enemy and confusion and riot 
reigned supreme in our once peaceful city. 
I was forbidden to go beyond our gates but 
curiosity and a desire for adventure led me into 
the streets: I was just falling in rank with a 
procession formed by the rabble when a hand 
was laid upon my shoulder. I looked up and 
saw Dr. Robert. 

“Come with me, Harold,” he said: “they 
want you at home.” 

He took my hand in his and together we 
walked homeward ; neither spoke for I had 
been taught never to talk to my tutor unless he 
first addressed me. 

When we had come to our gate, I was 
surprised to see our veranda thronged with 
people. I questioned Dr. Robert with my eyes. 

“My poor boy,” he said pityingly. “Dear 
little boy, your mother died an hour ago. 
Come, Harold.” 

I ran up the steps half frantic and rushed 


36 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


throug’h the open window into my mother’s 
room. Celeste caught me in her arms, weep- 
ing bitterly the while. I tore myself away and 
threw myself down beside the couch. 

There lay my mother, so still, so white, 
so beautiful. In the twinkling of an eye I re- 
alized it all — knew all the concentrated agony 
in that little word, dead. 

We will pass over this, the bitter heart- 
break of my childhood. 

The afternoon after my mother’s funeral, 
Dr. Robert bade my cousins be ready by noon 
the following day to return to the Convent of 
the Sacred Heart, a few miles up the river. 

“The city is no place for you, and I will 
take charge of Harold,” he said to Honorine. 

The stars and stripes were now hoisted 
over our city and it passed from Confederate 
rule forever. 

The cross of St. Andrew — that pillar of 
cloud by day and of fire by night of the heart- 
sick Confederate, went down amid groans of 
despair and shouts of victory. All was con- 
fusion and discord, turmoil and strife. 

After my cousins were safely housed 
within the sacred walls of the convent. Dr. 
Robert and I lived alone in our large empty 
house with mammy and the other servants to 
minister to our wants. Every morning we at- 
tended mass in a little church, which in ante- 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


37 


bellum days had been a private chapel and now 
stood in a weedy, neg'lected garden where 
broken statues and smashed fountains bore ev- 
idence of the visits of the destroyer. The 
white haired priest seemed in sympathy with 
his surroundings. The altar, covered with a 
white cloth, displayed none of the accustomed 
emblems, and a rude crucifix was the only 
symbol of remaining faith. The building was 
small; but small as it was, it was too spacious 
for the few who came to worship. 

The terror which prevailed on every side — 
the dread that devotion to religion should be 
construed into adherence to the Confederacy, 
that submission to God’s will should be inter- 
preted as an act of rebellion against the sover- 
eignty of human will, had gradually thinned 
the numbers, till at last the few who came 
were those whose afflictions had steeled their 
hearts against any reverses, and who were 
ready martyrs to whatever might betide them. 
These were almost exclusively women, the 
mothers and wives of those who had sealed 
their faith with their blood in the struggle for 
right and country. 

Among these was one whose dress and 
manner spoke of better days and whose ap- 
pearance commanded respect as she passed in 
and out of the little church. She was a small 
elderly woman, whose hair was white and 
whose face was a page of sorrow. 


38 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


She led a little girl, of about my own age 
whose dark eyes and brilliant complexion gave 
her a look of almost superhuman beauty in 
that assemblage of furrowed cheeks and eyes 
long dimmed by weeping. It was not perhaps 
that the child’s features were perfectly regu- 
lar; but there was a certain character of ex- 
pression in her face so different from all around 
her as -to be almost electrical in effect. 
Untouched by the terrible calamities that bur- 
dened older hearts she seemed to be above the 
blight of sorrow, like one who bore a charmed 
life and to whom fate had been kind. I read a 
jubilate in her face as it beamed upon me in 
striking contrast to the stern, sad features of 
those who had borne the burden. 

Every boy has in his nature a vein of gal- 
lantry and romance which though coming of 
itself, strikes deep root in his untried heart. 
Although its blossoms are so fleeting, the 
worldly wisdom of manhood often fails to blot 
out entirely this chivalrous sentiment of baby- 
hood. Be this childish feeling whatever it may 
(and to older people it is only an amusing sen- 
timentality), it should be encouraged. 

So I, a curlj^-headed boy — almost a baby — 
felt my heart swell with heroic inspiration as I 
glanced at the little beauty across the church — 
so near and yet so far! I had almost reached 
the delectable mountain! It was my pleasure 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


39 


to place a footstool for “the Duchess,” as the 
soldiers derisively called her, after I had 
opened the pew door for the gentle old lady 
and her beautiful charge. 

It was on these memorable occasion^ that 
I gazed spellbound into the fresh, childish face 
and as I stole noiselessly away, I carried in 
my soul hope and love and beauty. It seemed 
to my boyish fancy, that her heart had 
whispered a voiceless plea against my desola- 
tion; that the ills of life came and went as 
shadows; that joy should some time take the 
place of mourning. Such were the thoughts, 
profound and almost holy, that my heart read 
from her brown eyes, and such the hope caught 
from her baby face. 

My life with Dr. Robert was very simple, 
the greater part of the day was occupied with 
my studies. About two hours in the afternoon I 
was allowed to do as I liked. 

One bright morning in May Dr. Robert 
dissmissed me and retired to his room to sleep 
off a headache, he said. Rejoicing in my 
freedom, I bent my steps toward the heart of 
the city. A sound of unusual commotion at- 
tracted my attention. I recognized in a moment 
that much-to-be-dreaded evil, a riot. As the 
mob moved down the broad street, I grew 
frightened and fled to a neighboring shade tree, 
up which I hastily clambered. 


40 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


There was something* demoniacal in the 
exultation with which the lower class wit- 
nessed the misfortunes of those whom, a -week 
before, they had acknowledg*ed their benefac- 
tors and superiors. I gathered, from what I 
could now and then catch from the excited 
voices below me, that the unfortunates seated 
in the vehicles in the midst of the throng were 
banished to Ship Island, henceforth exiled from 
home and country. To me it was a solemn, 
fearful sight — nothing more. I realized nothing 
of the terrible conflict, nothing of the fierce 
passions enlisted in the struggle, nothing of 
that remorseless vengeance with which the 
rabble were hounded on. 

The uncertainty of human greatness and 
the degradation of the higher class seemed a 
most glorious recompense to those whose 
stations debarred them from all association. 
They witnessed the crucifixion of these souls 
with a joy born of fiends. 

The parade of soldiers — horse, foot and ar- 
tillery, that scattered the mob right and left, 
gave the scene a character of public justice; 
but the horrible mob, retreating, shouting 
ribald songs and course jests, suggested the 
idea of public vengeance. 

As the procession stretched its length past 
me, I recognized with dismay the little “Duch- 
ess” seated in a vehicle beside the gray haired 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


41 


lady ; they were among the unfortunates des- 
tined for Ship Island. 

The Duchess scrambled to her feet and 
stood on tip-toe and, taking from her handker- 
chief a tiny Confederate flag, she waved it 
round and round, crying in shrill childish 
treble : 

“Hurrah for the Southern Confederacy!” 

The lady beside her reached out a hand for 
the flag. 

“Hurrah for Jeff Davis!” the child shouted, 
struggling to her feet again. “Hurrah for the 
boys in gray!” she cried, holding aloft the tiny 
cross of St. Andrew. 

The white-haired lady drew the little rebel 
down upon her knee while a Federal soldier 
demanded in no pleasant terms the surrender 
of the flag. 

In an instant the Duchess had snapped off 
the slender staff and crowded the offending 
emblem into her pretty mouth. In vain the 
soldier swore and threatened. The child 
closed her red lips and sat with distended 
cheeks and defiant eyes, shaking her little fist 
almost in the soldier’s face. 

Again, with threats and oaths, the poor, 
little flag was demanded. 

“Leave the child alone!” commanded an 
officer. “I don’t like this business, anyway,” 
he muttered. 


42 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


The cavalcade moved on, the Duchess kept 
her flag". 

“How lovely she is! Such changing* color 
and fragile delicacy, such a sweet, pure face!” 
The officer half turned in his saddle to catch a 
last glimpse of the little Hebe and smiled as 
his thoughts flew back to the distant home, 
where, in faith most holy, a little child asked 
God’s love and protection for him. His heart 
grew tender and his eyes dim as the memory 
came upon him; he put up his hand involunta- 
rily — yes, it was there, the picture of his own 
little girl, whose brown eyes were so strangely 
like the little rebel’s. Next to his heart lay 
the fair baby face. Its presence had accom- 
plished a worthy mission; it had melted the 
father’s heart into a tolerance almost kind for 
this little daughter of the despised Southern 
aristocrat. 

I did not tell Dr. Robert where I had been 
or what I had seen. Had I been less occupied 
with my own foolish dreaming I must have 
seen evidences of Dr. Robert’s sufferings. 
When I had arrived at home he was not in and 
I wandered down the street and back again. 
This time I was startled by seeing a sentinel 
pacing up and down the brick walk, between 
the front steps and the gate. 

“Halt!” he shouted. 

“This is where [ live — my home,” I meekly 
ventured. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


43 


“Get out, you rebel upstart!” he cried, 
leveling’ his g’un upon me. 

“Mammy!” I shouted. 

“Dry up!” 

“Mammy! Mammae/” I cried, desper- 
ately. “Oh, Ma77tmy!'^ 

“Whotcher hollerin’ ’bout, son? I ain’t 
deef ef I is in de prime o’ de yaller leaf. Com- 
m’ere, man-boy. Come to mammy, sonny!” 

“You come here, mammy,” I cried out, in 
terror, as the sentinel made faces at me. 

“Tubby sho’, son, mammy’s cornin’.” 

“Go back!” from the sentinel. 

“De stair hit riz in Betluham, 

De stair hit riz in de mawnin’.” 

mammy sang, as she leisurely sauntered down 
toward the gate, utterly ignoring the soldier’s 
presence. 

“Go back, old monkey! Don’t you hear?’^ 
he cried, indignantly. 

“Who, in de name o’ Gawd, is yo’ talkin^ 
to?” mammy quietly asked, still coming nearer. 

“You.” 

Whotcher biznis wid dis Ferginny 
nigger lady?” 

“Go back into the house.” 

“Dunno’s I hafter.” 

“I’ll make you go!” declared the sentinel, 
losing control of his temper. 

“Dunno’s you kin. S’pozin’ yo’ try hit.’^ 


44 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


Just as she reached the g-ate the soldier 
slapped my face and gave me a kick that sent 
me off the banquette into the street. 

“What’s dat you doin’, man?’’ Mammy in- 
dignantly demanded. “Who’s dat you’s fight- 
in’, you whitetrash Yankee? Dontcher skan- 
lize my chile er puttin’ your ole narsty ban’s 
on dis lam’ — kickin’ er quality chile!’’ she ex- 
claimed, glaring wrathfnlly at the soldier. 
“Jes same’s er body’d kick er hawg! Come on, 
sonny-man.’’ 

I rushed into her outstretched arms. 

“Put that child down!’’ the soldier 
shouted. 

“Dotcher gimme no more your slackjaw, 
Mr. Smart-Ellick ; kicked you same’s er 
hawg,’’ and the faithful soul held me closer. 

“Put that boy down!’’ again commanded 
the sentinel. 

“Shet up!’’ 

“All right, old monkey.” 

Mammy took my hand and started through 
the open gateway, then lifting me she held me 
in her arms. I, sobbing upon her shoulder, 
felt comforted. 

“Mammy’s sweet man-boy,” she cooed. 
“Got er kickin’ same’s a hawg, er-er dawg,” 
she complained, patting my back. “Done 
grewn so big an’ long cain’t skasely tote dis 
man-boy,” she grunted getting a new hold and 
settling my cap on my head. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


45 


“Will you leave that boy alone?” cried the 
sentinel from the gate. 

“No, I wont! Now you got it! No, I 
wont!” 

“All right, old monkey,” he replied with 
an unpleasant laugh as mammy walked slowly 
toward the house. The next moment the spite- 
ful ring of a gun and sharp swish of a ball 
came like lightning and mammy staggered and 
fell, clasping me close in her arms. Another 
loud report and her life blood gushed over my 
white blouse. 

“Sonny!” she gasped. “Is you hurted, 
honey?” 

A smothered cry escaped her lips as she 
half arose, but to fall back. “Sonny-boy!” 
cried the faithful soul, “tell mammy is you 
hurted?” 

With the assistance of the servants and 
Dr. Robert she was carried into the house 
where we watched and waited. Dr. Robert 
with two other physicians were untiring in 
their efforts and nothing that human skill 
could avail or human hands perform was left 
undone; but on the third night mammy’s loyal, 
unselfish soul was freed and I felt indeed alone. 
I was revengeful in my grief ; and determined 
to find the commanding General, and report 
the murderous sentinel. 

“It will only make a bad matter worse, my 
boy,” Dr. Robert said. “Don’t do it, Harry. 


46 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


“What shall I do?” I sobbed, as bitter 
memories crowded my mind. 

“Pray, my boy, pray without ceasing* — 
pray with your whole heart for streng*th and 
courag*e. Pray for both as for one you loved 
best. Do you understand, Harry?” 

I vainly endeavored to g*lean a g*rain of 
comfort, and held on to Dr. Robert’s sleeve. 

“Listen to me, little boy.” He raised my 
head. “I shall be absent the entire day. I 
must see Honorine and Celeste. Perhaps I 
may not return for two days — if I have an op- 
portunity of g’oing* to the plantation, I shall 
improve it. Mr. Lascelle is having* trouble, 
Harry.” Dr. Robert drew me nearer. “If I 
am not with you in a week from to-day, you 
must g*o to the Sacred Heart and report my 
absence to the Reverend Mother. She will 
take care of you — you will be with Honorine 
and Celeste. Good.-bye, Harold. Stay in the 
house and g*rounds. Do not wander away 
ag’ain; old Louis and Mary will amuse you. 
Good-bye, little boy.” Dr. Robert’s hand trem- 
bled as it lay upon my head. 

“Remember, Harry, if I am not here by 
Monday, go to the convent. Old Louis will 
take you,” he called from the terrace. 

My heart was full to bursting*. I resolved 
to obey Dr. Robert’s instructions, and wept 
silently as I watched him pass out of the g*ate 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


47 


and disappear around the corner. It was a 
heavy, cloudy morning- and the sound of mar- 
tial music came slowly, but distinctly into my 
window. I wandered about the house and 
g-rounds, talking- with Uncle Uouis, the gar- 
dener, and singing plantation hymns with 
Aunt Mary in the kitchen. Dr. Robert did not 
return that evening nor the next. He had 
been gone an entire week, when I grew des- 
perate. 

“I want Honorine,” I complained to Uncle 
Uouis. “Take me to the convent to Honorine 
and Celeste,” I insisted. 

“Gawd unly knows whar is Misson Rene 
an’ Missle Es now, sonny.” 

“They’re at the Sacred Heart.” 

“Dee wos, son; but whar is dee now? 
Folks is plum broke up in dis day an’ time. 
You’s here one day an’ dar de naix day. But 
doe, Misson Rene ain’t takin’ no foolishnis 
offen nobody, I’se knewn Misson Rene long 
time, son.” 

“But Dr. Robert said I must go,” I in- 
sisted. 

“Missle Es is fur diffunt,” Uncle Louis 
said musingly. “Bein’ de baby gal make er 
diffunce, but doe Missle Es ain’t like Misson 
Rene, no way or no how. Why, son, when 
dees leetle tinchy gals Misson Rene go roun’ 
wid dem black eyes er hern lookin’ an’ er 


48 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


sarchin’ same’s er neag-le an’ solum! Son, Mis- 
son Rene’s de solemes’ shile on de ribber! 
Same’s er owel, mon. Missle Es er trottin’ 
roun’ er smilin’ here an’ er chattin’ an’ laughin’ 
dar; but doe her hade is mighty nigh red also. 
I ain’t so sho’ but hit ’pear like Missle Es is 
your mudder’s favorite.” 

“But, Uncle Louis-^ — ” 

“Hit’s dis way, son. De roses hafter be 
dug into deep ’roun’ de rootses; but doe de ’lan- 
ders hafter ” 

“I don’t care any ting about the flowers. 
I want t’ go to the convent,” I fairly shouted. 

“Huh, folks ”11 ’low you’s a gal den,” he 
chuckled. “Unly gal people stays dar.” 

That settled it. 

I thereupon resolved to search the city for 
Dr. Robert, and as soon as Uncle Lewis went 
into the kitchen I set out on my mission. I had 
wandered as far as the principal street when I 
saw an officer step from a carriage and drop 
from his hand a well-filled pocket-book. I 
picked it up and, following him into the build- 
ing, handed the package to him with my best 
bow. He took it without a word. 

“Who is he?” I whispered to a bystander. 

“The General commanding the department 
of the Gulf,” answered the man, adding in a 
whisper: “He is meaner than Satan — has no 
respect for himself or any one else. He had 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


49 


as lief murder a baby as shoot a dog.” I 
looked at the short, stout figure and wondered 
if it could be true, and then hurried into the 
street. 

“Harry!” called a voice at my side. 

I turned and recognized an old friend of 
my mother’s. 

“Harry, my dear little boy, what are you 
doing down here? You knew they had impris- 
oned Dr. Robert?” 

I shook my head. 

“I think,” she said, after a moment’s 
thought, “I think you had best go home with 
me. Where are the girls, Harry?” 

“Sacred Heart,” was all I could say. 

“Come, Harry.” 

“I want Dr. Robert, and Honorine and 
Celeste — and grandmamma,” I sobbed. 

“Go home, dear, and ask old Louis to take 
you to the convent,” she advised. “I would 
send Pierre, but am afraid to be out without 
him. Come to me this evening, Harry. We 
will talk over your troubles.” 

The lady drew down her veil and walked 
up the street, followed by her old servant. I 
ran hastily homeward. At last, out of breath, 
I reached the street in which we lived. The 
gate was wide open and a sentinel was march- 
ing up and down the walk. 


50 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


He was a larg-e, solemn-looking- fellow, in 
a dirty uniform of blue. 

“Halt!” he cried, as I ran up the steps. 

“This is my home,” I trembling-ly an- 
nounced, remembering- mammy’s trag-ic death. 

“Where is your father, bub?” 

“Dead.” 

“And your mother?” 

“Dead.” 

“Whose place is this, then?” he inquired. 

“My own home.” 

“Hain’t you no g-yardeen?” 

“What?” I asked in wonder. 

“Who looks after you?” 

“Dr. Robert is all I have left,” I sobbed 
out, as a flood of recollection swept over me. 

“There, there, don’t cry, bub. It’s an 
everlastin’ waste of time, space and opportu- 
nity. Don’t take nothin’ to heart, bub,” the 
sentinel advised. “How long-’s your folks 
been dead?” the roug-h voice softening-. “Tell 
me all about it bub; mebbe it’ll ease your 
feelin’s. I’ve had trouble myself.” 

“The voice of this big, rough soldier mod- 
ulated into a sympathetic cadence for my sor- 
rows. I poured out my chapter of woes into 
his ears. 

“The Johnnies done it, bub; the Johnnies 
done it!” he exclaimed, slapping the steps with 
his open hand. “They’ll do anything. Lord! 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


51 


Once and occasionally you’ll find a Johnnie 
who’s a fine fellow, but oftener you’ll find him 
too stuck up to speak t’ a Yankee doodle. The 
Johnnies air a curi’s set. Lord! strang-e and 
pecooliar!” 

“What is a Johnnie?” I inquired, ashamed 
of my ignorance concerning the races. 

“Lord!” the soldier exclaimed, giving the 
step upon which he sat another blow and look- 
ing doubtfully into my face. “You are a John- 
nie yourself, bub — a young Johnnie.” 

“I beg your pardon. My name isn’t John- 
nie,” I declared, farther than ever from eluci- 
dation. 

“Did I say your name was Johnnie?” A 
laugh, loud and hearty and contagious, shook 
his huge anatomy. 

“Is your commanding General a Johnnie?” 
I meekly said, when the laugh had subsided 
into a series of chucklings. 

“Lord! no, not any of the Johnnie about 
him,” and he lowered himself upon the steps. 
“A Johnnie is no more and no less than a 
Confed.” 

“A Confederate soldier?” I asked, as a 
glimmer of light stole into the riddle. 

“Precisely so, bub.” 

“Then it’s nice to be a Johnnie,” I smiled. 

Well — mebbe so. You folks down here 
can be as aggervatin’ as any set I ever see. 


52 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


There’s a couple of sides to every question, 
ain’t that so? Now, bub, s’pose these Confeds 
had a’ behaved themselves. Then, we will go 
on s’posin’ our folks had a’ behaved themselves. 
In such a case me and you’d never been ac- 
quainted, would we bub? You’re all a funny 
folk anyway. Why bub,” here he seemed sud- 
denly amused, “they ‘tote’ the horses to water 
in Virginia.” 

“They can’t” I asserted, then wondered if 
“Jack, the giant-killer,” was a Virginian, and 
if that State was a land of Goliahs. 

“They say they do,” laughed the fellow. 
“Now, bub, good bye. There comes my relief. 
Keep up a good heart, bub. You’re a nice little 
fellow — considerin’ you’re a Johnnie. I’ll re- 
member you in my prayers,” he added, 
laughing as he shook my hand. 

The next morning, at an early hour, old 
Louis and I presented ourselves at the prison 
gate for admittance, which was denied. I de- 
termined to see the General himself, vaguely 
hoping he would grant my petition. The Gen- 
eral’s office was in the St. Charles Hotel, and 
I shivered when I read from a placard in the 
window this sentence in large print: 

“THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE IN THE VENOM OF 
A HE OR SHE ADDER. 

Of the meaning it conveyed, I had but a 
vague idea, for I was only a child, but the 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


53 


whole world, shocked and outraged, denounced 
as with one voice, the infamous “Woman 
Order” which I read from the placard in the 
window of the St. Charles Hotel — an order is- 
sued by the General Commannding the Depart- 
ment of the Gulf. This General’s ofl&ce was a 
long, broad room. Tables, chairs and desks 
were scattered about the apartment in direst 
confusion. The General sat at a table near the 
center of the room and on that table lay . a 
brace of revolvers and a few newspapers. A 
little back of him sat a man — “a short-hand re- 
porter,” some one whispered. I was suddenly 
thrust into the street, as I stood gazing into 
the window. Uncle Louis humbly begged an 
interview, but was kicked off the banquette. 
There was nothing left but to return home. 
Home? When we reached our gate we were 
greeted with: 

“What do you want? Get out!” from a 
loud-voiced, over-dressed woman. 

Alas! I had no home. Like thousands of 
others in that ill-fated city, I had been robbed 
of home. Boy, as I was, I felt the injustice, 
but was powerless. I gazed through a mist of 
tears at the loved, familiar pictures — the old 
banana tree, whose broad leaves reached 
toward me in friendly sympathy; the clumps 
of white lilies reminded me of my poor dead 
mother; the sweet violets, blooming so fragrant 


54 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


and modest, lifted their blue petals from the 
border beds, making* me think of Celeste’s blue 
eyes, and as I caught a glimpse of a tall palm 
in the background I felt as if I must die, for I 
always had associated that tree with our 
stalely Honorine. 

Then I turned my back upon the ashes of 
love and hope and hurried away to hide the 
tears that almost suffocated me. Hour after 
hour I walked the streets. The mere act of 
motion seemed to divert my grief, and it 
w^as only when footsore and weary I could walk 
no longer, that my sorrows flowed back upon 
my soul and extinguished every spark of hope. 
I had wandered into an unfamiliar part of the 
outskirts of the city. Here and there people 
had joined their families, while others hurried 
or lingered near some corner discussing the 
questions of the day. In the dim distance, afar 
in the gathering twilight, down toward the 
river, I thought I heard the voice of a seraph. 
Stopping, I held my breath and listened. 
Where had I heard it before? 

“Weep no mo’, ma la’-dee, 

Weep no mo’ ter day, 

We’ll sing- one song of dee ole Kaintuckee home. 
Dee ole Kaintuckee home furer way-ee.” 

In a flash of memory I saw the plantation 
— Uncle Ike — the bayou and all. Forgetting 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


55 


tired feet and heaviness of heart, I ran toward 
the sound as 

“We’ll hunt no mo’ for de ’possum an’ de coon’’ 

came to me like the echo of an old familiar 
voice, or the fragrance of flowers long ago 
faded. 


CHAPTER V. 

I fell exhausted after my chase for a will- 
o’-the-wisp. No more heard I of the song. A 
sense of loneliness again overcame me. It was 
this consciousness that weighed me down more 
than any other feeling, and I felt with what 
devotion I could have served him, who would 
but treat me with the kindness he might be- 
stow on his dog. I fancied with what ^eal I 
could descend to very slavery for one word of 
affection. My heart was hungry — my life a 
dreary solitude. 

The streets were crowded with people as I 
limped back into the city* Groups were gath- 
ered here and there, listening to some orator of 
the mob, or hearing the newspapers read. I 
tried to rid myself of my desolation by forcing 
myself into the crowd, at the imminent risk of 
being trodden under foot, to feel myself one of 
the people, and to inspire my soul with an in- 
terest in what was going on, but in vain. I 
knew nothing of the topics under discussion. 


56 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


and no one noticed me. High-sounding words 
and phrases greeted me strangely. They spoke 
of fraternity, of that brotherhood that linked 
man to man; of equality, that made men equal, 
and social sharers in this world’s goods; of lib- 
erty, that insured freedom of thought and ac- 
tion, and gave vent to every noble inspiration 
and generous deed. For a moment, carried 
away by the glorious illusion, I forgot my soli- 
tary and isolated condition, and felt proud of 
my heritage as an American-born youth. 
Something in the voice of the speaker arrested 
my attention. A strangely familiar ring in his 
voice awoke a curiosity to get a glimpse of his 
face. I looked about me. What countenances 
met my ga2;e! Their bloated features, unnat- 
ural eyes glowing wdth intemperence, their 
oaths, their gestures, their very voices, were 
terrible. I moved out of the crowd as fast as 
possible, and again wandered aimlessly about 
the streets. Once I ran against old Louis. 

“Uncle Louis,” I said, clinging to him as 
to a saving grace, “can we never get our home 
again?” 

“I’se ’feard not, sonny,” he responded 
with a groan. “De man what tuck it is dat 
cock-eyed Jinral’s brudder, an’ I spec de game 
is up f’ us, sonny,” he said, with new-born 
energy. “Did you hear ole ’Pollus noratin’ t’ 
dat crowd er white trash? I sw’ar! ’Pollus 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


57 


Speak plum purty and sensible f’ a ha’f nig-g-er. 
Dat was ole ’Pollus er splavercatin’ and ’zortin 
son! I ain’t gitter speak t’ him yit. Huh! 
’Pollus mighty spry and mannish f’ a ha’f 
nigger.” 

Again we were separated for a moment in 
the surge of the multitude, then the faithful 
old negro caught me in his arms. 

“Le’s git erway fum here, Harry, boy. 
Dis one tarryfyin’ place now, honey. Did you 
know ’bout dey hung er man t’day? A po’ man 
but er mighty good man, son.” 

“Why did they hang him. Uncle Louis?” I 
asked, nestling closer to him. 

“Jes cause he tuck de flag offen de Ment, 
son, an’Lawd! he’s po’ wife an’ chillen! Sonny 
I tells you hit’s plum scan’lis. Lawd! Lawdy 
massy!” Uncle Louis groaned in anguish of 
spirit. 

“I want to see the place. Uncle Louis,” I 
said, wondering by what process a man is exe- 
cuted by hanging. 

“’Tain’t no place f’ you to see, sonny, boy, 
’tain’t no fitten place f’ to be gwine. Lawd! 
yander’s ole ’Pollus now — tryin’ t’ haave his- 
se’f like er white man! Jes’ look at ’Pollus, 
honey-boy.” 

We were outside an eating house, away 
down the street. I looked through the window 
and saw Apollo, the plantation blacksmith, 
seated at a table eating his supper. 


58 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Jes’ walk right in, sonny, an’ tole ole 
’Pollus howdy,” whispered Uncle Louis. 

“Will you wait for me,” I asked, loth to 
leave him. 

“Sartin son, sartin. What I gwine t’ run 
off for, and whar I got t’ run?” the old man an- 
swered dolefully. 

I walked into the room and elbowed my 
way to Apollo’s side. 

“Howdy, Uncle ’Pollus!” I cried as I 
reached him. 

“Hello! Why, it’s Harry!” he exclaimed. 
“Howdy, sonny. Howdy, an’ double howdy!” 
He held my hand in his broad, rough palm, 
and looked me over, then seated me on his 
knees. “Gawd bless dis boy! Sonny, how 
come you out in de night a’r? How’s your 
mudder, an’ de young mistises, mon? Lawd! 
honey, whot’s de matter wid you?” he asked, 
as he trotted me on his knee. 

I burst into tears, and laid my head 
against his shoulder. At this moment old 
Louis appeared. 

“Don’t ax dat po’ chile so many squestins, 
’Pollus. He been through de fire an’ likewise 
de furnish. Sonny’s done plum broke up, and 
I is, too. Here, Harry, son, eat some supper. 
Ain’t de leetle chap hawngry? Eat all you kin 
honey, an’ den we will have er chat,” lifting 
me to a chair. I was hungry, and enjoyed my 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


59 


supper. Uncle Louis joined me, and Apollo 
paid the bill. Then we went out in the clear 
moonlig-ht. 

“Dat chile plum wore out Hain’t g'ot no 
place to res hise’f,” complained old Louis. 

Whatever may have been prison vig-ilance 
in our city, I ascertained from what I could 
understand of the conversation kept up by 
Apollo and Uncle Louis that Dr. Robert had 
made his escape. We halted near the Custom 
House, where Apollo, who had carried me on 
his shoulder, lifted me, with a grunt of relief, 
to the ground, and I fell asleep with my head 
pillowed on his arm. I know not how long I 
slept, but when the damp chill of night awoke 
me no one was near. 

Again I started in fear and trembling, and 
walked on and on. Twice I folded my hands 
and repeated my Ave Maria, finding at last a 
structure I then believed to be the gallows on 
which perished, a few short hours before, an 
innocent, unoffending citizen. All was per- 
fectly plain in the moonlight. My imagination 
painted a picture weird and ghastly. [ fancied 
I saw the victim of military nemesis pale and 
wan and hopeless — could hear the cries and ex- 
ecrations of an outraged multitude. Overcome 
with an awsome fear, I knelt upon the damp 
earth and tried to pray, but terror was too 
powerful to allow my thoughts to take this 


60 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


direction, and half fainting- from fear and ex- 
haustion, I lay upon the g-round and slept. 
Not a dream crossed my slumbers, nor did I 
wake until dawn, when the rumbling- of the 
wide-awake city aroused me. I do not know 
why nor whence came the feeling-, but after I 
said an Ave Maria and repeated a hymn I arose 
from the g-round and looked about me with a 
more daring- and courag-eous spirit than my 
soul had ever before known. The first brig-ht 
rays of the May sunshine were g-ilding- the 
domes and spires of the city, and the fresh g-ulf 
breeze was invigorating- and cheering. 

At the time of which I write our city 
knew, in its fullest sense, the entire definition 
of the word, terror. By the agency of this 
power, and the threats of denunciation, was 
•everything carried on, not only in public de- 
partments, but in common, every day life. 
Among the lower class fathers used this un- 
holy influence toward their children, children 
toward their parents. Mothers coerced their 
daughters, daughters in turn braved the au- 
thority of their mothers. The tribunal of 
mock justice, open to all, scattered its decrees 
with a reckless cruelty, denying to-day what 
it had declared yesterday — at last obliterating 
every trace of right or principle in a people 
who now lived for the passing hour, and who 
were fast losing faith in any future. Among 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


61 


the children of the rabble, even in play, this 
reckless, desperate feeling gained a ready foot- 
ing. 

The tyrant urchin, whose ingenuity ena- 
bled him to lord it over his playfellows, en- 
acted the despot’s part. Children are not slow 
in acquiring evil, and soon learn to domineer 
over their vassals with all the insolence and 
easy assumption of seeming power. 

This period was essentially one of action, 
not of reflection. Events seemed to fashion 
themselves at the will of him who ruled from 
the St. Charles Hotel. No one had the daring 
to gainsay his edicts, with Ship Island or the 
scaffold as the forfeits of his boldness. The 
natives and citizens, exhausted in soul, seemed 
too poor-spirited to stem the tide. 

Nero fiddled when Rome burned. The Gen- 
eral Commanding the Department of the Gulf 
smiled benignly upon insult, rapine and mur- 
der. Clad in a little brief authority he wielded 
his despot’s sceptre with an air of a conquerer, 
while issuing his infamous Woman Order, 
which aroused the horror and disgust of his 
own party, to say naught of the maledictions 
of the civilized world. What had I, a boy, 
without home or parents, to hope for? 

The vagueness of my prospects served but 
to extend the horizon of futurity before me, 
and I fancied a thousand positions of distinc- 


62 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


tion I might yet call my own. A desire for 
fame, or its poor counterfeit, notoriety, seemed 
to my ambitious soul to be the most enviable of 
all possessions. It mattered little by what 
merit it was attained, for in that fickle time 
great vices were as highly prized as transcen- 
dent abilities, and one might as well be illus- 
trious by crime as by ability. Such had not 
been the teachings of Dr. Robert, but they 
were the lessons that the city dinned into my 
ears unceasingly. Reputation was of no avail 
in this city, where all was change and vacilla- 
tion. What was idolized to-day was execrated 
to-morrow. The hero of yestesday was the 
victim of military vengeance to-day. The suc- 
cess of the moment was everything. 

The streets were crowded as I passed 
along, and a light rain was falling. Groups of 
people were gathered at every corner, and by 
their eager looks and gestures showed that 
some event of great importance had occurred. 

“What has happened?” I asked. 

“Another lot of people been banished to 
Ship Island,” answered a workingman. 

As yet men only spoke in whispers and 
broken phrases; many were weeping and say- 
ing a last word with desperate fervor — bitter 
farewells. But few dared to trust themselves 
in outspoken sympathy, for none knew what 
spies were watching, or if the tyrant had con- 
ceived new tortures or indignities. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


63 


While I listened to the tidings, which in 
half whispers and broken sentences reached 
my ears, the music of a band sounded in close 
proximity, and immediately the head of a 
military column appeared. In the center of 
the cavalcade were the vehicle containing the 
exiles — old gentlemen, delicate ladies and little 
children, sentenced to Ship Island for one, 
three or five years of hard labor. A battery of 
light artillery followed, and as the procession 
advanced, crowds receded, and gradually the 
street was left free to the armed force. 

Though frightened and trembling, I con- 
tinued to ga^e at the glitter of gold and scar- 
let until a strong hand grasped my collar, and 
by a sudden and painful jerk, swung me up to 
a seat upon a caisson. I rapidly and mutely re- 
peated my Ave Maria, which was interrupted 
by “See here, little Johnnie, I’ll give you a 
job,” from the man beside me. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Six magnificent horses were before me ! 

Six great, well-kept black horses! 

Horses and dogs I had always adored, and 
one of my pet fancies was to one day own all 
the black horses and every individual dog on 
the globe. 

I watched these proud stepping chargers 


64 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


with delight, forgetting for the moment all 
else. 

“What’s dat?” a familiar voice shouted 
from the banquette, as the procession moved 
on. I, from my position, gazed enchanted. 
“Whar’s you, sonny? An’ whar’s you er 
perusin’ to?’’ 

I recognized Uncle Louis standing near 
Apollo, under the shelter of a magnolia tree. 

“In de rain, too — same’s er duck! Huh, er 
ridin’ wid er Yainky at dat !” he growled. 
Apollo’s tall figure was at my side in a moment. 

“Here, Harry, come wid Unk Pollus, 
sonny.” His powerful arms bore me from the 
caisson and on his broad shoulders. Then he 
strode on again, old Louis following. 

“Son’s sottin’ up dar same’s er ossife'r 
hisse’f, son was,” old Louis said, with an air 
of pride. 

“Son’s gwine t’ stay wid Unk Pollus, ain’t 
cher, honey?” asked Apollo, shifting me to the 
other shoulder. 

“Hand that boy back here, you contra- 
band,” the man on the caisson called out. 

“What’s say, mawster?” from Uncle 
Louis, as the procession paused a moment. 

“Fetch that child here.” 

“Whuf fer, mawster?” 

“I want him.” 

“You see, son’s all we got lef’,” Apollo 
said, turning toward the man. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


65 


“An’ we’s all son’s g'ot, too, also,” old 
Louis sighed. 

“Fetch him here!” 

“Mister,” began Apollo, “this is all the 
white fambly we got left and we boun’ to take 
care of sonny — this boy,” he explained, patting 
my foot. 

“Maybe heer some son’s kinnery f’om de 
furrin sho’. You ’member mawster’s er 
Yainky, mawster was,” half whispered Uncle 
Louis, who entertained an embryo romance 
in his muddled, woolly old pate. 

“Son,” Apollo said, resting me in his arms, 
“had you druther go with us or with that 
chonder man?” 

I clasped my arms tight about his neck, 
and held out one foot to Uncle Louis, in token 
of undying affection. 

“Dar, now!” Uncle Louis exclaimed fond- 
ling my foot. 

“Son’s er sho ’nuf joe-darter f’om way 
back. Son’s know hees nigger is hees bes’ 
frien’s, doncher, man-boy?” 

Apollo again hoisted me to his shoulder, 
holding on to my feet. 

“Where are we going, Unk Pollus?” I 
inquired, as we trudged on. 

“Gwine home, sonny-boy,” quickly re- 
sponded Uncle Louis. 


5 


66 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Home,” he repeated, “sich es hit air, 
whole lot er cabins sottin’ ’roun’, same’s er 
whole passel er was’ nes’es — all stuck up t’ 
g-edder jes same’s dirt-dobbers er — er was’es 
nes’. You gwine laf, aincher, man?” 

The rain now descended in torrents. I 
was still on Appolo’s shoulder, with old Louis’ 
coat wrapped about me. 

“Le’s stop sommers,” panted old Louis. 
“Son’s sho gwine t’ be sick,” he complained. 

Apollo stopped under an awning and, 
divesting me of the coat, placed his ear on my 
chest and listended. 

“All right, sonny,” he said, cheerfully. 
“Will you take some quinine f’ Unk Pollus 
now?” 

Just in front of our group an officer had 
dismounted and now stood near us, under 
shelter. 

“What is it?” he asked taking off my cap. 

“Sonny’s got wet an’ I’m feard he’ll get 
sick,” Apollo explained, listening again at my 
chest. 

“Where’s the boy’s mother? Why is he 
here?” 

Apollo, after bidding Uncle Louis to take 
care of me, beckoned the officer out of ear shot, 
and, I felt sure, gave him a detailed account of 
our trouble. Uncle Louis meanwhile enter- 
tained me with a thrilling version of the 


' MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


67 


“Probable Son,” who, when he “riz up” and 
went to his father, was killed, while the fatted 
calf was being- kissed, and the father was 
adorning his little fingers with rings. 

“Sonny-boy,” Apollo called. “Commere, 
son.” 

I scrambled from old Louis’ knee and ran 
to Apollo. 

“Son, this gentleman wants you to board 
with him till Dr. Robert comes. Our shanty 
ain’t no fitten place for you, honey, an I spec’ 
you better go.” 

My heart sank within me. All peace and 
security was again drifting from me. 

“Son, I’ll come to see you,” he began. 

“I want Unk Louis, too,” I said. 

“He can go.” 

“I want grandma and Honorine and Ce- 
leste and Dr. Robert — .” 

“Any one else?” the officer smiled. 

“You ain’t squainted wid our gal-folks, I 
reckin,” Uncle Louis hastened to explain, 
“Misson Rene mighty fine young ’oman. She’s 
long an’ slim an’ got de blackes’ eyes. Lawd! 
Misson Rene look at you same’s er neagle. 
Now, Missle Es’ de baby gal, she’s er smilin’ 
all de time an’ er sassin’ somebody an’ er 
projekin’ wid son. De ole Mistis useter call 
Missle Es ‘de sunlight,’ and den she ’low as 
how Misson Rene’s ‘de solium midnight.’ Our 


68 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


fambly is de quality, dey is dat! Misson Rene’s 
de solium midnight an’ Missle Es’ de sunlight ; 
ole Mistis say so herse’f,” he added as conclu- 
sive proof. 

The negro is by nature loquacious, and no 
amount of ignorance or mental obtuseness has 
ever yet proved the slightest bar to the impulse 
to talk, to friend or foe — talk he must and will. 
So Uncle Louis opened his mouth and spoke 
freely, fully and without reserve to this officer, 
whom he now beheld for the first time. 

“He’ll letch’er ride a hawse, sonny,” 
Apollo urged as a last persuasion. 

“An’ have a dawg — a leetle bitsy dawg,” 
added Uncle Louis. 

I agreed to go, stipulating that I should 
see Apollo once a week and Uncle Louis every 
day. 

“We los’ son once,” he explained, “kaze 
son move from whar we lef’ him; but doe we 
had t’ leave him dar, kaze dat ashcat driv us 
off. I ain’t usen t’ ashcats,” he complacently 
observed, shaking the rain from his hat. 

In looking . back, after a long lapse of 
years, to this period of my life, I wonder how I 
remained so contentedly within the Union bar- 
racks. 

Uncle Louis was with me every day, and 
to his thoughtful care I owed much of my con- 
tentment. “Son” was his chief pleasure. The 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


69 


soldiers watched his devotion to me, and my 
affection for the old negro, with wonder. They 
were in a chronic state of amazement at the 
affectionate friendliness existing between mas- 
ter and slave. 

A uniform of blue now adorned my person 
and I was the special care of Major K — , who, 
though belonging to the Department of the 
Gulf, was deserving of the grand old name of 
gentleman. I had not seen Dr. Robert for 
quite a while, and accepted, with all the grati- 
tude of my childish nature, and of a lonely 
waif, the kindness shown me by Major K — . 

One of the most remarkable phases of this 
war was the change it produced in all social 
relations by a substitution of the Confederacy 
for the closer and dearer ties of friends and 
family. The Confederacy was everything — the 
family nothing. Every generous wish, every 
proud thought, every high ambition or noble 
endeavor belonged to the Confederacy. 

The gentle, tenderly reared daughters of 
this sunny land made untold sacrifices of luxury 
and comfort for the cause for which they 
worked, hoped and prayed. What the South 
may have gained by this devotion certain it is 
that among some classes all home affections 
were wrecked, and the humble and unobtrusive 
virtues of domestic life weighed insignificantly 
beside the grand displays of patriotic devotion 


70 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


which were each day exhibited, even under the 
arg’us eyes of the General commanding- the De- 
partment of the Gulf. 

Notwithstanding- the uniform kindness 
shown me by Major K. and the untiring- devo- 
tion of Uncle Louis, with attention and kind- 
ness from every officer and soldier in the bar- 
racks, I g-rew home-sick, and longed for a sight 
of a home face. I wanted Dr. Robert, and 
sighed for my dear grandmother and pretty 
cousins. 

I had received one letter from Celeste, 
sweet, blue-eyed Celeste! At last I made up 
my mind to seek Dr. Robert; but where? 

My uniform readily gained me the liberty 
of the city, and the Major had presented me 
with a fleet, gentle pony, which I christened 
“Dixie.” One day, when Uncle Louis had 
gone fishing, I set out, accompanied by an or- 
derly, on a visit to the little church in the 
environs of the city. I rode slowly by my old 
home, noting every change with a sinking 
heart. The oleanders and orange trees nodded 
their blooming heads in welcome over the low 
iron fence. I inhaled the perfume of the rose 
thicket in the corner, and looked for the old 
banana tree. Alas, it was gone! 

I quickened my pace and rode, with tears 
streaming down my face, to the little church. 

What impulse led me, I know not, but I 
was seized with a desire to enter. The gate 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


71 


was ajar as of old, and pushing- it open I led 
my pony into the enclosure — the orderly re- 
maining- outside. 

I walked to the door of the church, which 
I found closed and locked. Walking- around 
the ivy-clad porch I noticed foot-prints in the 
soft, damp soil. Investigating further, I ob- 
served the torn tangle of the ivy overgrowing 
a window. 

Climbing up among the vines I entered the 
dark, sombre chapel. As my footsteps echoed 
through the silent building, I felt that sense 
of awe and reverence so inseparably connected 
with a place of worship and which is still more 
impressive as we stand alone in the “dim, re- 
ligious light.” 

The present was less with me than the 
past. There was the pew the Duchess and 
her grandmother used to occupy. Here was 
the pillar beside which I stood spell-bound, 
gazing into her Peri face, whose beauty ar- 
rested the thoughts which should have wan- 
dered heavenward and made my muttered 
prayers an offering to herself. 

There — the same footstool I had so often 
placed under her little feet. There, the very 
bouquet her hands, divinely fair, had placed be- 
neath the shrine, withered and faded. But 
where were they whose burdened souls 
breathed here their sobbing devotions ? Lin- 
gering in exile or imprisonment, dragging out 


72 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


lives of anxiety and misery. What was the sus- 
taining- element of such martydom and devo- 
tion? Was it religion or loyalty? 

True religion undefiled, with strength born 
of loyalty to right and country, bore them up; 
fortified their souls through crucifixion, and 
enabled them to face death itself. With this 
beautiful faith so ennobling, and loyalty so 
grand and true — the South, this hospitable land 
of sunshine and flowers, was of one mind and 
heart. 

While thus meditating, I advanced toward 
the altar. 

I was startled to find upon it two lighted 
candles. In a moment I felt that Dr. Robert 
was near — had come to celebrate a mass. I 
knew what an earnest Christian he was, and 
how he loved this little temple, associated as it 
was with all the joys and sorrows of his long 
life. I knelt before the altar to say my Ave 
Maria, and to ask for Dr. Robert’s safety, feel- 
ing assured in the beautiful faith of childhood 
that I had only to ask. Suddenly a door opened 
beside the altar and Dr. Robert, in the vest- 
ments of a Roman priest, stood before me. 


CHAPTER VII. 

His features, wan and wasted as they 
were, still wore the old expression of calm dig- 
nity, and by his look I saw that he would not 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


73 


suffer this sacred spot to be profaned by any 
outburst of feeling-. 

“Harry, my dear little boy,” Dr. Robert 
spoke calmly, “Harry, let us pray for those 
who have broug-ht about our undone condi- 
tion.” 

“Would, you offer a prayer for those who 
murdered my father and for the man who rob- 
bed us of our home? I can’t.” 

“Harold!” , 

“I can’t pray for any of them ; nor for that 
fellow who killed poor mammy,” I sobbed, as 
the vision was recalled. 

“And who more need the intercession of 
the saints? Who have ever been called to 
judg-ment with such crimes to expiate? Who 
have so widowed and orphaned the South and 
so desecrated her altar? Fortunately a few 
remain who may implore pardon for their 
iniquities. You knew of the poor fellow who 
was hang-ed ?” 

I nodded. 

“Let us recite the litany for the dead.” 

He reverently bowed his silvered head and 
began the impressive service. As I knelt 
beside the altar railing, and heard the prayers, 
which, with deep devotion, he uttered, I could 
not help feeling the contrast between that evi- 
dence of Christian charity and the uncompro- 
mising cruelties and injustices of the “powers 
that be.” 


74 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


“And now come with me, sonny-boy,” Dr. 
Robert said, when mass was completed. “Here 
in this little sacristy we are safe from molesta- 
tion. None will think of us here.” 

As he spoke he drew me nearer, and to- 
g-ether we went into the small apartment where 
the decorations of the church were kept. 

“Here we are safe,” he said, as we seated 
ourselves upon a narrow bench; which was the 
only furniture in the room. 

“I am glad you came to me to-day, Harry. 
I wanted to see you, yet dared not seek you. 
To-morrow, my boy, we must leave this place. 
I have it all arranged; we will seek an asylum 
beyond the seas.” 

“Where?” 

“The Brothers of the House of Jesus will 
gladly receive us.” 

“But where?” 

“There monastery is in the wilds of Cuba, 
and there, beloved by each other, we will live 
in peace and security.” 

“A convent?” 

“A monastery, my poor boy. We need 
not take the vows of their Order, which is one 
of the strictest of all religious institutions, but 
we may claim their hospitality and protection 
— neither will be denied us. Think what a 
blessed life that will be, Harry, to live under 
the same roof with these holy men, and imbibe 
from them that peace of mind which holiness 
alone bestows.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


75 


I shook my head. 

“To awake to the sweet notes of the peal- 
ing organs,” he hastened to say. “And to 
close our eyes in slumber to the solemn litur- 
gies still chanting; to feel the influence of de- 
votion on every side; to see the sacred relics, 
whose miracles have attested the true faith in 
ages past.” 

I sat in silence, for, in truth, I felt none of 
the enthusiasm with which Dr. Robert sought 
to inspire me. He read my tell-tale face, and 
endeavored to picture a monk’s life as a charm- 
ing, much-to-be desired existence, embellished 
by all the graces of literature and art, and 
adorned by the pleasures of intellectual inter- 
course. Poetry, romance, scenery, all these 
were pressed into the service of his persua- 
sions ; but how useless ! 

“Will grandma go?” I asked, hoping yet 
not to disappoint him. 

“No, no.” 

“Honorine or Celeste?” 

“No, my poor little boy, no.” 

I could not think of leaving the city with- 
out my relatives. Dearly as I loved Dr. Rob- 
ert, my ideas for my own future were decidedly 
and entirely of a military turn. I stood erect 
before him, arrayed in a uniform of blue, as 
proud of my trousers as was Hercules of his lion- 
skin. I tried to listen attentively, but my look 


76 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


of inattention illustrated to Dr. Robert his fail* 
ure. I could see, in the increasing- pallor of his 
face, and his quivering- lips, what his lack of 
authority was costing- him. Dear Dr. Robert ! 
How my childish heart ached with and for him. 

“Alas! alas! I might have known it!” he 
cried regretfully. “The work of ruin has be- 
gun. Your mind is corrupted and the fountain 
of truth and virtue defiled at its very source. 
Oh ! Harold ! I had never thought this possible 
of you. Harry, my son, my son !” 

As David of old wept over the erring Absa- 
lom, so Dr. Robert bewailed my worldliness. 
A burst of grief overcame him, and for some 
time he could not speak. At last he lifted his 
dear, white head, and looked into my face. 

“Harry, my dear child,'’ he moaned, “the 
life I have painted seems unworthy of your 
thoughts. You are only a child, with a child’s 
idea of greatness being centered in mere noto- 
riety. When you are older you will see things 
in a different light. This monastic life did not 
prove ignoble nor irksome to Chrysostrum nor 
Augustine, nor to the blessed saints of our 
church, the eldest-born of Christianity.” 

I understood a little of what he intended 
to convey. 

“Yours, little boy, is, perhaps, not the 
ag'e nor the era in which to hope for better 
things. iTour poor little heart yearns for heroic 
action. Your spirit is set upon high ambitions. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


77 - 


I pray a thousand blessing’s upon you, my dear 
Harold.” 

Then suddenly he asked : “Where do you 
live, Sonnie? Do Louis and Apollo provide for 
you?” 

“Unk ’Pollus pays my board and Unk Louis 
takes care of me. Unk ’Pollus bought my new 
clothes.” 

“Ah, in pants, I see. You seem much 
taller. Who cut your hair. Why are you 
shorn of your curls, and what will Honorine 
say? By the way, where do you board? 

“In the barracks with Major K. I have a. 
pony and four dogs,” I hastened to add, as I 
saw a gathering frown on his patient, worn 
face. 

Dr. Robert’s forbearance here burst all 
bounds. He spoke of the Union soldiers as 
being sworn enemies, not only of the South, 
but of the church, as desecraters of her altar*. 
Their vaunted patriotism he called a mere pre- 
tense to wound and pillage. Their heroism 
was the bloodthirstiness of republican cruelty. 
Seeing me still unmoved by all this passionate 
declaration, he adopted another method and 
asked: 

“You are a son of the South, are you not, 
Harry?” 

“I don’t know where I belong. Papa said 
I belonged as much to the North as the South. 


78 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


Mamma did, too, for we both belong*ed to papa. 
We are all going* back home to live. - Grandma 
and you and me and Honorine and Celeste/’ I 
cried, elated at the thought. 

“Heaven grant your wish, dear child,” he 
answered with a sigh. 

“Major K. says, we shall have our home 
again, and the plantation, too,” I assured him, 
confident that the promise would be fulfilled. 

“Don’t depend upon promises, Harry. 
Talk is exceedingly cheap.” 

Dr. Robert had well nigh lost faith in 
everything. A noise at the window attracted 
our attention. 

“Good-bye, Harold,” Dr. Robert whis- 
pered, pushing me through the little doorway 
into the chapel. 

“Hello, bub!” shouted the figure at the 
window. 

“LordI it’s Johnnie! Come out and le’s 
renoo our acquaintance, as it ware.” 

I had reached the window and as my old 
friend, the solemn looking sentinel, descended 
from his perch, I scrambled down among the 
ivy vines to the ground. 

“This your creeter?” 

“My what?” 

“This your pony?” He patted Dixie’s 
ne«k. “What’s your name, bub?” he asked, 
grinning. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


79 


“Harold,” I replied, “and what’s yours, if 
you jdease,” I added. ^ 

^ “Well, bub, my name’s pecooliar. Don’t 
know’s you’ll ricollect 'it, but I hain’t no kyard 
nor pencil. We’ll have to trust to your mem- 
ory. My name’s strange. Lord! it’s pecooliar. 
It’s Smith. My name’s Smith, but Lord! it 
ain’t John Smith,” he smiled triumphantly 
down upon me. 

“No — what’s your name?” 

“Harry,” I answered. 

“Lord 1 be you any kin to the Long-John- 
Harry ?” 

“I don’t know, indeed. I never met him. 
Who is he?” 

“Don’t you know Long- John-Harry ? Bub, 
did you ever see the General?” 

“I’ve seen Confederate General Lovell 
and—” 

“Lord I” he interrupted, “/don’t talk 
about Confeds. Did you ever see the general 
commanding here? Well, he’s a close connec- 
tion of the Long-John-Harry. I calcalate it’s 
some cooler for the general now, but ain’t goin* 
t’ say how it’s goin’ t’ be after he’s through 
here.” 

I was thoroughly mystified, and stood 
wondering what Mr. Smith meant, so I asked : 

“What will the general do when ^ he’s 
through here?” 


80 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Lord! bub, how do I know? Do like 
Bllixander Hamilton, I guess.” 

“How’s that?” 

“Don’t you know Hllixander Hamilton 
wept because there wasn’t any more worlds to 
confiscate?” 

I had never heard the fact before, but was 
not startled by it. 

“You’re young, bub, and have got every- 
thing to learn yet. Can you read and write 
and cypher?” 

I nodded. 

“You know ’rethmetic — been in long divi- 
sion?” 

“Yes, sir,” I replied, wondering and fear- 
ing what would come next. 

“Long division’s a putty good rule, but 
Lord 1 it don’t work with a soldier. We high 
privates don’t practice any such rules. It’s all 
short division with our finances. Bub, do you 
know much history? All about Napoleon 
crossing the Deleware — all that’s very instruct- 
ive to thh youLhful interlec’. You know all 
about Samson bein’ the strongest man and 
Moses in the bullrushes ? I be bound you’ve 
been interdooced to all them Bible fellers. Now 
tell me the name of the boy that stood on the 
burnin’ deck of the gunboat?” 

A sly twinkle illuminated his dull eyes for 
a second. It aroused my anger, but I swal- 
lowed my wrath and was silent. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


81 


“Now, bub,” he said in a conciliatory tone, 
“don’t g*et your dander up, I was jokin’. I’m 
a great fellow for a joke and keep the camp 
alive and goin’ with my cheerfulness. Our 
boys jes dote on me — you see I’m so witty and 
cheerful. Going?” he called as I walked to- 
ward my pony. “Hold on. I’ll give you a 
boust ; there we are,” as he lifted me into the 
saddle. 

“That’s a middlin’ good nag. Good-bye, 
bub. Don’t forget Smith, Sammie — or what’s 
your name. Yes, good-bye, Harry, and good 

luck to you. Remember Smith Danyuel 

Smith — in your prayers. Looky here, Harry ! 
what’s you doin’ dressed up in Union blue? 
You’re a Johnny. Are you tryin’ to be on 
both sides of the fence to once? Slide over on 
the safe side, bub, and stick to that friend like 
grim death to a dead Confed. Good-bye, and 
don’t forget yours truly, Danyuel Smith.” 

I cantered down the street with his hearty 
laugh ringing in my ears. Of a truth, Dan- 
yuel Smith was cheerful. 

“Howdy, Uncle Ike!” I shouted as I caught 
a glimpse of the old fellow in the distance. He 
turned, shaded his eyes with his hand and 
looked at me, then hastened toward me. 

“Bless my soul! Son, is datchew? Howdy, 
mon! Got on britches! Son’s got on sho’ nuf 


82 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


britches! Mon, whar’s you bin an’ whar’s you 
g*wine? Um-um-um,” walking off a pace and 
viewing me with his head turned half around. 
“My Lawd! son’s got some britches! Ole 
miss, fa’ly tuck er duck fit, son. How big is 
de mon now? How long’s dis boy-man?” He 
grasped my foot from the stirrup and held my 
leg straight out. “Lawd sabe my rotten ole 
time! Son’s er grown ossifer now.” 

“Where is Mr. Lascelle, Unk Ike?” 

“Plantashin, honey, takin’ keer dat cottin. 
Sh-sh-sh. Dontcher cheapit, sonny, for dat 
cott’n all you got t’ stan’ twix you an’ starva- 
shin. Does you see ole ’Pollus an’ Unk Lewis 
much times, mon?” 

“Do you have a good time, Unk Ike?” I 
asked. 

“Huh, I works here and den I works dar. 
Lawd! Lawd! dese folks mighty curis. Dey 
say es how dey freed us an’ now we gotty 
work. I nebber ax nobody t’ free me — free’s I 
want to be. Lawd, honey, I’se had er skanlls 
hard time sence I bin free. Don’t take no mo’ 
de freedom in mine. Ben er workin’ f’ a lot er 
ha’f-hammered white trash. Wooesh you could 
see dem folks — dee looks plum lak er passel er 
ash cats, an’ de chillen! Lawd! dose chillen 
look lak dee bin suckin’ de bluin’ raag dese ten 
year. Sonny, aintcher heeard ’bout Mr. Las- 
celle? Well, son, de hawjakers done pull de 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


83 


po’ critter up by his iiaik twict, but doe he 
ain’t kilt yit. You see Mr. Lascelle won’t 
tellum whar’s dat cott’n. Pollus done g-one up 
de ribber t’ see what kin he do. Dontcher say 
nuf’n ’bout dat cott’n, honey, case some dem 
Yainkees mout git hit. Um-um-um. Son’s 
sho got britches! 

“Honey,” he said, stroking my knee ; “son, 
dat cott’n’s all ole mistis an’ you an’ Misson 
Rene an’ Missle Es gotty lib on, sides de Ian’, 
an’ de quality ain’t no dirt-eaters, you know. 
Who dat wid you, son?” 

Old Ike glanced suspiciously at the or- 
derly. When his fears had been quieted, he 
continued : 

“I heeard es how dat ole cockeye Gineral 
was’nt gwine to be here much longer. Sonny, 
I’se gotty go now. Is dee good t’ you, honey? 
Don’t let ’em spile you an’ don’t git uppity, an’ 
bigitty an’ too brash. Um-um-um, son’s got 
britches, an’ what’s mo’ got ha’r lak a plum 
mon. Huh!” With these parting remarks I 
rode on to the barracks. 

I was in a fair way of being spoiled, for 
the “Dittle Confed,” as they called me, was 
the pet and plaything of the barracks. To 
these soldiers the campaign seemed a pleasant 
excursion. They made a jest of everything — 
from the wan faces of the sick to the drooping 
eyelid of the General commanding the Depart- 
ment of the Gulf. 


84 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


A man who carries a musket in the ranks 
is but a small ingredient of the mass that 
formed the army, and his thoughts, hopes and 
ambitions were probabl}^ as unknown and un- 
cared for as the precise spot of earth that 
yielded the ore from which his musket was 
smelted. 

The Union, in its effort in crushing the 
rebellion, had elevated the individual, and each 
soldier, in whatever station he occupied, felt 
himself qualified to entertain opinions and ex- 
press sentiments which, because they were his 
own, he felt to be just and loyal, and all talked 
of war with the gusto of perfect generalship. 
The great operations of the campaign and the 
various qualifications of different commanders 
were daily subjects of dispute in the barracks. 
Upon two topics only were all agreed, and 
there unanimnity overbalanced all discord. 
They agreed that the Union was the most 
glorious nation on earth, and deemed them- 
selves the heaven-born disseminators of free- 
dom throughout the length and breadth of the 
best government the world ever saw. They 
were sworn enemies of the haughty Southern 
aristocrat, and the missionaries of a political 
creed, which was not only to elevate mankind, 
but to render every condition in life eminently 
happy and prosperous. They also agreed that 
the General commanding the Department of 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


85 


the Gulf was a huge mistake — a libel upon 
nature. 

When I reached the barracks that after- 
noon, I noticed Uncle Louis was busily stirring 
a conglomerated mass in a large camp kettle. 
Walking over to his fire I watched the pro- 
ceedings closely. Now and then a few grains 
of corn appeared on the surface as he sang and 
stirred. 

“Higher clam de cherry tree, 

Riper grow de cher^^.” 

“What’s that. Uncle Louis?’’ I asked 
pointing at the kettle. 

“Homily, son. Dontcher git too close, 
honey. Spile your britches.” 

“I’m so glad!” I exclaimed. 

“So’se I, sonny. I tells you, honey, Unk 
Louis are nat’rally wore out on brade. Hit’s 
brade t’day an’ brade all de time. Ash cake’s 
what I’m er hankerin’ after, an’ bress Gawd I 
got hit, mon.” 

“Where?” 

“Jes nachelly bake hit, mon, an’ what’s 
mo’ I’se jes perlitely bilin’ my and yourn 
homily.” 

“I like hominy and buttermilk. They 
taste like the plantation, don’t they ?” I asked, 
squatting a little distance from the fire. The 
old negro half closed his eyes, while a smile of 
satisfaction lighted the wrinkled old face. 


86 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


“Hush Up talkin’, son! jes shet rig’ht up 
er splavacating-’ bout de flush pots er Eg*up ! 
Mon ! ef you wants Unk Lewis to chaw glory — 
I say son, ef you wants to see Unk Lewis chaw 
glory an’ spit up de hallyluyers jes sit dis nig- 
ger gen’lemon down t’ ash cake ’n buttermilk ! 
Son, hit’s de milk an’ honey t’ some folks. 
Ah ! ah I er er um um !” 

“Well,” I said, smacking my lips in 
sympathetic anticipation, “where is the ash 
cake?” 

“Dontcher fret an stew, honey; Unk 
Lewis sho done cook hit. See dat, mon?” 

Stooping he swept aside the smoldering 
embers and with a practiced hand burrowed 
into the deeper drift of ashes with a prolonged 
um-um-um brought to light a thin, round cake 
covered with ashes. 

“Hit’s done, sonny — hit’s plum done !” the 
old man announced as he brushed away the 
ashes with a dish rag. “Come on, mon.” 

“What about the hominy?” I asked, 
casting covetous glances at the boiling corn. 

“Jes you wait, sonny-boy. Gotty worsh 
dem ashes out’n dat cawn an’ soak hit an’ bile 
hit good ’fo’ hits name homily. Son, twixt 
me’n you an’ de gate pos’ taint no Yainky in 
dis constermint what know how t’ cook. Nos- 
sir, dee don’t knew nuf’n ’bout de cook pot. 
Huh, hit’s er leetle brade an’ less butter an’ 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


87 


mo’ tea. Lawd sabe my rotten soul ! I hain’t 
seed er pot er greens sence here I bin ; sich 
livin’ ! Ole mistis wouldn’t nigh stan’ dat ; 
dunno what ole mistis gwine do caze she jes 
nachelly ain’t gwine t’ eat white folkeses’ cook- 
in’ ; ole mistis mightly ’tickler an’ so’s Misson 
Rene and Missle Es. Dem gals gwine be pow’- 
ful hawngray when dee gits home — dee always 
is hawngry f’ some Mar Ann’s cookin’. Ole 
mistis ’lows how Misson Rene’s de solium mid- 
night an’ Missle Es de sunlight.” 

Lifting me to a chair before a little square 
table the old negro bent above me asking in the 
old obsequious way, “Hab some de ros’ tucky? 
hits nice an’ palpabul. Some de jelly,” plac- 
ing a tin cup of buttermilk before me. 

“Eyesters!” he announced with a bow and 
flourish of the dish rag, placing before me a 
piece of ash-cake on a tin pan. 

“Wine?” he affectionately asked as he 
poured black coffee from a blacker pot into a 
pitcher with a broken handle. 

“Mawster need er tonic,” he said softly, 
placing a cup of water in front of my pan. 
“Ment julip,” he explained. 

I understood it all ; we often “played like” 
we were at home. 

“Ole mistis done scuze herse’f. Dar go 
Misson Rene ’dout de sense. Missle Es don’t 
sense, she jes laf. Ole Mistis er talkin’ t’ Dr. 


88 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


Rob’t now. Misson Rene feedin’ de birds an’ 
Missle Es er pickin’ on de g’ittar. Ole mistis 
’low es how Misson Rene de solium midnig*ht 
an’ erer Missle Es de sunlight.” 

His voice sank into a whisper. He had 
finished his supper of ash-cake and buttermilk, 
and was dreaming of the old halcyon days 
when “old mistis” reigned in the hearts of her 
sable subjects, honored above all women — when 
“Misson Rene” and “Missle Es” toddled about 
the house, happily oblivious of their orphaned 
condition, the special joy and care of mammy 
and Dad Louis. 

Dream on, old man; the wearing of “sor- 
row’s crown of sorrow” brings many a heart- 
ache. Let the old memories linger, for after 
all it is better to remember the sunny paths 
along life’s journey, darkened though they be 
b}^ clouds and heartbreaks. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

In spite of the kindness shown me in the 
barracks, I was growing weary of camp life 
and often sobbed myself to sleep, thinking of 
my poor, dead mother and longing to see my 
grandmother. Dr. Robert, sweet, blue-eyed 
Celeste and the stately Honorine. I often re- 
minded the Major of his promise, that before 
another summer was over we should be re- 
established in our own home. The Major was 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


89 


frank with me. There is, probably, no feature 
of character so seductive as candor — real or 
apparent. The most artful of all flatteries is 
that which presents itself in the garb of frank- 
ness and seems to select, as if by intuition, the 
object most suited for a confidant. The Major 
carried my childish heart by a cou^ de main of 
this kind, and not for my own life would I have 
betrayed his most trifling confidence. I believed 
in the Major, and, though worldly experience 
has since shown his small deceptions towards 
me, I have only smiled at the recollection. 

Major Kinsdall was correct. Before an- 
other summer had waned, I was safe and happy 
in my own beautiful home. 

Vicksburg had fallen and I was glad of it 
for my grandmother had come; the Convent 
had yielded up our treasures. Celeste and Hon- 
orine and we were all, thank Heaven? at home 
again. 

The heartless Attila, whose rule from the 
St. Charles Hotel had swept like a desolating 
storm over homes of innocence and Edens of 
peace, had been deposed. 

A gentleman had taken command of the 
Department of the Gulf, and no lawless rule or 
heartless rapacity marked his reign. 

Dr. Robert, no longer in disguise or terror, 
was, with Mr. Lascelle, striving to bring 
“order out of chaos,” at the plantation. I still 


90 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


saw a good deal of the Major, for he was a wel- 
come and a frequent visitor at our home. 

At home ! With grandmother, sweet, blue- 
eyed Celeste and the stately Honorine ! Home ! 
How suggestive is the mere word of love and 
comfort! Our beautiful home was our own 
again, it seemed too good to be true. 

I have said the Major was a frequent and 
a welcome visitor at our house. I drew that 
very mildly, for he was there so much that 
Uncle Louis spoke of him in the kitchen as 
“Mr. Peter Constant.” Major Kinsdall was 
in love with Misson Rene too, he said. 

They did not seem to get along as lovingly 
as Captain Charlie and Celeste; but everybody 
is different, and Honorine was very different 
from Celeste. Honorine could look daggers 
and Celeste’s blue eyes gave you smiles. 

To-day Honorine and the Major were not 
doing so well. “If you will consider the mat- 
ter, Miss Fontaine,” he was saying, “I am 
quite sure you will come to a far different con- 
clusion.” 

“I prefer to hear no more on that subject,” 
Honorine answered icily. 

I lay very quietly on the sofa, my head on 
her lap, her hand alternately smoothing and 
tumbling my hair. 

“You cannot mean what you say. Miss 
Fontaine, surely you cannot. Many a woman 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


91 


has sacrificed her happiness to her pride. Have 
a care, for your own sake if not for mine, how 
you add to the number,” he said warningly. 

Honorine was silent. Her hand trembled 
as it moved back and forth over my forehead. 
Had there been any vacillation in her mind this 
ajuration would have but confirmed a fixedness 
of purpose. 

She readily caught the daintily fashioned 
reproach in his tones more keenly than was 
spoken — a reproach upon her impulsive char- 
acter ; which unspoken disapproval had so 
often wounded her and which in truth had 
more to do with her present state of feelings 
than the difference in birth, education and 
politics. 

Major Kinsdall was an awkward love- 
maker, though he was an honorable man, and 
his untimely persistence had given fire to the 
eyes whose expression might have grown softer, 
had lent steadiness to the voice that under 
other circumstances might have trembled. Be- 
sides, this was one of Honorine’s “bad days.” 

“Suppose,” suggested Major Kinsdall, 
“we wait and think over it.” 

“No need of that,” she replied, with a 
queer little smile. “My mind is quite made up. 
I shall not sacrifice my happiness or yours.” 

“Thank you!” the Major said gratefully. 

“You mistake my meaning. Major Kins- 
dall. I shall not sacrifice my own happiness 


92 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


or yours. We should be miserable together — 
we are so totally different. You are cold and 
unreasonable, I am hot-headed and impulsive, 
as you have too often told me. Your faults lie 
so deep they are never near enough the surface 
for you to see them. They make you hard and 
unforgiving toward me, for whom you profess 
so much affection.” 

“Lhave often noticed Miss Fontaine — ” 

“That is the great trouble ; you notice too 
much. I never could live with a private detect- 
ive like you — on the lookout, on the watch all 
the time for some fault to reprove.” 

“My dear Miss Fontaine !” 

“I have always been as free as air,” Hon- 
orine continued, “and I would soon learn to 
despise a husband in the character of censor or 
judge.” 

“But, Miss Fontaine, if you — ” 

“Life would be one long, fierce quarrel,” 
Honorine went on as if driven. “No, Major 
Kinsdall, it is because I would save each from 
a life of wretchedness that I insist upon an end 
to our engagement.” 

It was impossible to doubt her earnestness. 
Honorine meant what she said truly. She still 
stroked my hair, sitting erect and resolute. 

Major Kinsdall walked up and down the 
room. At length he stopped in front of our 
sofa. I opened my eyes a little to see how he 
looked. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 93 

Hard and cold as Honorine bad called him 
he was now more moved than she. 

“Miss Fontaine,” he called, in an unsteady- 
voice. “The caprice of a moment cannot make 
such ruin as this. Your g-randmother’s wishes 
— more than all, you force me to remind you= — 
your own confessions and promises, must have 
some weight. Have you never loved me — or, 
have you only been playing a part?” 

“If your words were anything to me now,” 
she scornfully exclaimed, “I should resent what 
you have said. Have I ever loved you? It 
seems so when I have for weeks been pupil, 
culprit and very nearly your slave.” 

“Miss Fontaine !” 

“I have positively learned to dread your 
presence. Even in innocent gayety you find 
some fault.” 

“Not so bad as that,” he remonstrated 
gently. 

Honorine had certainly made up her mind 
to have it out with Major Kinsdall. She began 
again : 

“Different constructions have been put 
upon all I did and said. You have drilled me 
in every intricacy of speech, every petty detail 
of conduct, as if I had been a lunatic and you 
my watchful attendant and instructor.” 

“Dear, dear; how you talk!” the Major 
said, half bewildered. 


94 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“No one can discipline me. You would 
degrade any woman you married. I have borne 
a great deal more than grandma dreams of. I 
will not marry into bondage.” 

“But for all that, Honorine, I love you. 
You are not yourself to-day.” Major Kins- 
dall’s voice was so changed I gazed at him in 
openeyed wonder. 

“I sincerely wish you did ; but the hope is 
a forlorn one. You do not love me. You love 
Brnest Kinsdall, not Honorine Fontaine, and 
you will be good enough to remember that to 
3^ou I am Miss Fontaine.” 

“Look here, Honorine !” I exclaimed, jump- 
ing up in defense of the Major, you are a little 
bit too particular. There’s Captain Charlie — 
he never called Celeste ‘Miss Fontaine’ in his 
life. He says ‘My Celeste’ — just as sweet and 
easy, and holds her hand all the time he is talk- 
ing. I like his way ! Captain Charlie kisses 
Celeste, too !” I declared. 

“Son!” 

“It’s so ! I’ve seen Captain Charlie kiss 
Celeste, and she kissed back, too! dozens and 
dozens of times. Major Kinsdall is as good as 
Captain Charlie. Why can’t you be like Ce- 
leste and kiss back?” 

“Run away, son,” Honorine said, her face 
like a thundercloud and her eyes looking dag- 
gers in spite of her gentle tones. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


95 


“Sit right here beside her, Major !” I 
shouted, much excited. “Sit here and take 
her hand and say ‘my Honorine’ soft and easy 
like Capt. Charlie says ‘my Celeste’ and see if 
she don’t melt. We all have to pet Honorine. 
It takes lots of soft talk to keep her in tune, 
you see she has had so much trouble, grandma 
says.” 

I glanced at Honorine, tears were silently 
stealing over her pale face. My heart smote 
me. 

“We love her all the same,” I hastened to 
say as I wiped away her tears and kissed her. 

“I said we loved you all the same, Honor- 
ine,” I cried regretfully and almost in tears. 

“Why don’t you say something, Honorine? 
I said we loved you.” 

“Thank you, son,” she said, choking back 
her sobs. 

“I will go now. Say, don’t you love me a 
bit, Honorine?” 

“I love you very dearly, son,” she said, 
kissing me. 

“Don’t you love the Major too, Honorine?” 
determined to see my favorite fairly dealt with. 

“Very much, son, run along,” she whis- 
pered, while that gentleman examined an orna- 
ment on the mantel piece. I walked leisurely 
out of the room, determined to report to grand- 
ma and have affairs amicably adjusted. 


96 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


“Miss Fontaine,” Major Kinsdall said, 
walking- slowly towards her. “It is very 
strange that we have so deceived ourselves, 
that a bitter dislike has crept into the place 
love once held. What a blind dreamer I have 
been !” 

“You are not alone in idle regret. I too, 
have dreamed; but it is all over. Major Kins- 
dall, allow me to bid you good bye.” 

Honorine arose, held out her hand, her at- 
titude as firm and stately as ever; but her 
averted eyes shone with suppressed emotion 
and her pale face was wet with tears. 

He had intended saying good-bye without 
another word, but a glance into her troubled 
face, proud and defiant though it was, moved 
him to unwonted tenderness; for with all his 
exacting disposition and dictatorial manner 
Major Kinsdall loved Honorine with his soul’s 
strength. 

“Miss Fontaine!” he began, but a little 
gesture from her arrested his words. 

He saw it would be vain, that she would, 
in her present mood, reject his most earnest 
prayer — as she had scorned his expostulations. 

“Good-bye, dear,” he said gently. “Bad 
as you deem me, my Honorine, I wish you all 
happiness — apart from my own.” 

How still and proud she stood! He no- 
ticed every expression of her pitiful face; he 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


97 


read plainly the ag-ony against which her in- 
domitable will upheld her. 

“Honorine, it breaks my heart to leave 
you thus. Can we not compromise?” 

“Do I not suffer as well? As usual you 
do not understand me. We are so different — 
you are unyielding; so am I. You are exact- 
ing; I am impatient of the slightest control 
and—” 

“Let us not part in anger, Honorine. If 
you were not so high-strung.” 

“If I were not Honorine Fontaine,” she 
said, her sobs coming between each word. 

“Can she ever have loved me?” was the 
bitter question he asked himself as he hurried 
from her presence. 

“Grandma!” I called as I ran down the 
hall, “Honorine and Major have had the big- 
gest row, and — ” 

“Come here, son. You should not speak 
of poor Honorine having ‘a row’ with any one. 
She and Major Kinsdall have possibly disa- 
greed — differed, rather — upon some trivial mat- 
ter, but never say she had ‘a row’ with anyone 
again. Run away, now, son.” Grandma kissed 
me and patted my hand. Failing to make a 
proper impression upon Grandma, I went' into 
the kitchen where Aunt Mary dozed peacefully 
in her chair. 

“Aunt Mary!” I shouted in her ear. 


7 


98 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Lawd a’mig-hty, son ! Whatcher wants?” 
She sat up straigfht now. 

“Honorine and Major are having- the awful- 
est fuss!” 

“Misson Rene jes a projickin’ — taint no 
harm in Misson Rene, son,” Aunt Mary said, 
smiling-. “What de matter widdem? Jes a 
fussin’ ’bout nuffin ’tall ; jes sorter quarl t’ 
hear deyse’f talk ; dat’s all.” 

I was not re-assured ; but feared it was all 
up with my friend the Major. 

“Lawd, son,” Aunt Mary went on, “Gals 
is mig-hty curis sort o’ fewmales, dey is dat. 
Don’t be pestered, honey, ’cause Misson Rene 
g-wine t’ tote her own skillet, an’ don’t you fer- 
g-it dat p’int of de argyment. Taint nobody 
gwine ’pose on Misson Rene. Dem black eyes 
talks, son ; jes nachelly talks ; and talks de 
gawspil, too! Don’t you be pestered ’bout dat 
man, neither, son. He got de big I ’long wid 
him, jest like all de mans. Its de big i an’ HU 
tie youy 

Major Kinsdall walked rapidly down the 
street, trying to analy2;e his feelings. 


CHAPTliR IX. 

He might never find another to take her 
place in his affections; but she, in her won- 
drous beauty, who loved society and was wor- 
shiped by its devotees, could and would no 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


99 


doubt find his place filled by a more fortunate 
suitor — such things as hearts caught in the re- 
bound were not impossible ; and he thought 
with a pang of Honorine, his Honorine and the 
man who was to be blessed by his loss. Here 
the BIG I stood up and whispered. 

""Is it a loss 

Was not his present unhappiness a shorter, 
kinder pang than a life-long misery with this 
high-spirited, hot-headed daughter of the 
South? 

Ah, Major Kinsdall ! turn the subject over 
and over in your own mind as you will ; look at 
it from every standpoint and, like all your sex, 
find always a great, colossal I standing out in 
bold relief, veiling the shadow of justice, hiding 
the semblance of truth. 

“I am right — she wrong,” he mentally de- 
cided, looking at the matter through the big i. 

Major Kinsdall wanted to be just, tried to 
be more than just, but the big i stood up and 
out so broad and tall it almost hid his sense of 
right. 

He took another look at his misery ; this 
time from the other side of the monumental 
BIG I. 

“Honorine! poor, dear little girl!” his 
heart plead. “Was she not right? Was it 
not beautiful in her to confess the truth though 
it cost her tears and heart aches?” 


100 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


The BIG I here veered ’round and stood 
exactly in front of his mental vision. 

No, no, her words and actions were inex- 
cusable. What rig-ht had a woman to a tow- 
ering passion? He saw her scorn all so mean 
and little. Her truthfulness that should have 
shone out radiantly glimmered, but weakly 
through that opaque big i. 

The glorious afternoon sunshine flooded 
the park and cast unbroken shadows on the 
grass. 

Major Kinsdall saw so many happy people 
that afternoon and vaguely wondered at their 
gayety as he strolled listlessly about. 

At last he met a brother officer who was 
David to his Jonathan, Damon to his Pythias. 

This Damon was not as handsome a man 
as was Major Kinsdall, he was below the aver- 
age height with a rugged, irregular face, but 
his brown eyes and black hair gave a kind of 
rough beauty to his face; for the brown eyes 
told of honesty, energy and penetration. No 
one ever thought of his homeliness, for, as 
Celeste ‘ expressed it, “his were eyes that 
laughed and talked.” 

Grandma said he was brilliant and engag- 
ing, he talked well, told stories and anecdotes 
with spirit — he was brave, and determined, a 
man whose energy and self-command were un- 
conquerable. Grandma said. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


101 


Damon saw something- was amiss with his 
friend and very soon had an account of Major 
Kinsdall’s troubles. 

“Honorine is so chang-ed,” he complained. 

“Think of what sorrows she has had to 
bear and remember that she is a Southern 
flower unused even to roug-h wind. I think 
it kind of her to g-ive you a word or look,’’ Da- 
mon said seriously. 

“You do not understand,” Major Kinsdall 
said, impatiently. 

“[ understand this much — that you have 
not been kind to 3^our beautiful Honorine.” 

“I think I have,” Major Kinsdall asserted 
with spirit. 

“Has he been g-ood, Harry?” Damon asked 
me, smiling-ly. 

“I expect so, for to-day even when they 
were talking- and Honorine crying-, she said — ” 

“You talk too much, son,” Major Kinsdall 
interrupted. 

“What is it? What did she say, Harold?” 
Damon asked. 

“I said, ‘Don’t you love the Major, Honor- 
ine?’ and she whispered — ” 

“What?” the Major asked, suddenly inter- 
ested. 

“I said,’ ‘Don’t you love the Major, Honor- 
ine?’ and she kissed me and whispered, ‘Very 
much, son; run away, now,’ ” I repeated. 


102 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


The two gentlemen exchanged glances, 
then Damon said : 

“Think, Ernest, of what she has suffered! 
Think of the bitterness they of the South all 
live under.” 

“I can’t help that.” 

“Of course not ; but you should have some 
consideration and magnanimity. Your occupa- 
tion of love-making has unhappily verged into 
fault-finding, I suspect,” Damon declared. 

“Exactly what she said in a blaze of anger, 
too. She even called me unreasonable and 
exacting.” 

“So you are. I have not a doubt of it. 
People often reveal strange truths under excite- 
ment, and are sometimes unjust, too.” 

“How you talk!” 

“Ernest, as a man you should be the supe- 
rior in moral courage and power. Do you not 
think you could have been more considerate, 
less sensitive and consequently happier?” 

“I am sure I have been to Honorine all a 
lover could be. Why, I could die for her and 
count my life well lost!” the Major declared. 

“Yes,” Damon smiled, “but it would not 
amount to a hill of beans if you sacrificed nine 
lives at your lady love’s shrine. You should 
be too chivalrous, too merciful to cause a 
woman sorrow. I really think there is more 
nobility in the suppression of self — in the ig- 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


103 


noring^ of doubt and the misery that doubt 
briug-s than in all the fig-hts of St. George and 
the Dragon. 

“Nonsense!” 

“We are all prone to demand more than 
we are willing to give,” Damon went on, un- 
heeding his friend’s exclamation. 

“The genuine hero is he who demands 
nothing.” 

“Am I a dog to lie in the dust at a wo- 
man’s feet?” Major Kinsdall asked, half an- 
grily. 

“Oh, no, not at all; but in all seriousness, 
Ernest, you should be stronger, braver- 
hearted. Do you love Miss Fontaine so en- 
tirely? Then show it by a persistent patience 
and uniform tenderness. She is so very differ- 
ent from you? Then look over her peculiar- 
ities of disposition — not that Miss Fontaine is 
ill-tempered; but one can see that she is ner- 
vous and irritable — or would be upon provoca- 
tion.” 

Major Kinsdall was silent. 

“We prate of heroic deeds, Ernest, yet we 
neglect to cultivate our real heroism, which is 
all told when we ‘bear ye one another’s bur- 
dens.’ We step upon and crush the flowers at 
our feet and reach far above our heads for 
the unattainable, ideal blossoms. How often 
we disdain to show appreciation for blessings 


104 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


we possess and vag'uely dream of perfection in 
others — not in ourselves.” 

Major Kinsdall listened without a word, 
his great heart was touched, he resolutely put 
the BIG I behind him and saw only Hon- 
orine, the one woman in the world to him, with 
tear-stained, troubled face. 

“I don’t know but you are right. I will 
see Miss Fontaine to-morrow and make it up 
with her,” he said, somewhat slowly. 

“Another thing, while I am in the mood, 
Ernest. I will tell you that with your persist- 
ency you often annoy your peerless Honorine 
until I have felt a sympathy for her. I think,” 
Damon said, rising and looking at his watch, 
“if you will excuse me, I have just time to 
make Miss Fontaine a little call. Will you 
come — will you, son?” He smiled down upon 
me as I sat upon Major Kinsdall’s knee. 

I waited a moment to hear what he said. 

“I guess son and I will go driving, won’t 
we, son?” 

A sudden shower caused us all to hasten 
away. 

Damon found Honorine standing near a 
window in the library, watching the rain that 
now came in a lazy drizzle upon the tangle of 
iv}’’ under and around the window. To her it 
seemed like a pall from the bier of her dead 
hopes. Her face was as sad as the heavens and 
her heart was as heavy as her eyes. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


105 


She turned with an impatient g*esture at 
the sound of footsteps, for she thoug-ht Major 
Kinsdall had returned. 

When she saw it was not he her face flushed 
with pleasure. She smiling'ly held out her 
hand, sighing as if a heavy burden had been 
lifted. 

Then, as if remembering something, she 
drew herself away, checking both impulse and 
smile, looked at Damon as coldly and question- 
ingly as if he were the Major himself. 

“I am taking quite a liberty. Miss Fon- 
taine,” he began. 

“Not an unpardonable one, I think,” she 
returned. 

“I want a long, quiet talk with you. Miss 
Fontaine.” 

“Have a seat here,” Honorine drew nearer 
the fire. 

“Has anything ruffled the calm of your 
platonic soul?” 

“Nothing whatever,” he laughed pleas- 
antly. 

“Miss Fontaine, may I speak to you with- 
out fear of offending — as a brother might talk 
to a sister?” 

Honorine smiled. Damon caught its mean- 

ing. 

“Nothing of that kind, I assure you,” he 
laughed, “that theory met with an untimely 


106 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


annihilation with Miss Celeste’s and my expe- 
rience. I simply want a friendly talk with 
you.” 

“About Celeste?” 

“May I talk?” 

“Certainly you may,” Honorine said as- 
suringly. 

“Then I shall speak to you of my brother- 
friend, Ernest Kinsdall!” 

“Oh!” ejaculated the stately Honorine. 

“What of him?” she asked with studied 
composure. 

“Do not be offended. Miss Fontaine. I 
will say nothing that will hurt you ; but must 
be frank. Do you think you are wise — I do not 
say right, in your treatment of Ernest?” 

Honorine looked at him in wonder. 

“Remember, Miss Fontaine, I did not say 
‘are you right,’ but ask if you are wise. I 
realize that this is a most delicate subject and 
one with which I have no earthly right to 
tamper. You are young, you are imperious, you 
are beautiful. Let us put aside all ceremony. 
Think of me as an ancient priest come to con- 
fess you, and let no thought of my officious- 
ness mar my usefulness to you. Shall I go on. 
Miss Fontaine ?” 

“Go on.” 

“Are you not a little — just a trifle hard on 
Ernest ? His awkward persistency is very try- 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


107 


ing, I grant ; but he loves you so entirely, Miss 
Fontaine.” 

Honorine sat silently watching the fire. 

“Miss Fontaine, I think if you and Ernest 
would — ” 

“No, no. Did Major Kinsdall give you 
this mission ?” 

“He certainly spoke to me of your coldness 
toward him. He is very much disturbed ; he 
sees just where he has been naughty and craves 
forgiveness.” 

“Did Major Kinsdall ask you to say this 
to me?” Honorine slowly asked. 

“Oh, no, not exactly ; but. Miss Fontaine, 
will you not yield a gracious permission for 
him to see you — just once?” 

“I think,” Honorine said, raising her eyes,^ 
“I think when Major Kinsdall wishes that per- 
mission he will ask for it. I have not forbidden 
him the house, I am sure.” 

“Your work?” Damon asked as he exam- 
ined a picture on the mantel. 

“Celeste’s, my little sister did it.” 

“She executes well. I am something of 
an artist myself, but have no time for the cul- 
tivation of my favorite study. Do you paint. 
Miss Fontaine?” 

“Oh, yes, I did those portraits over there.” 

“A most beautiful face! May I ask 
whom?” 


108 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“My mother’s sister — son’s mother.” 

“And this?” 

“My own mother. See Celeste’s resem- 
blance?” 

“Indeed I do.” 

“Honorine!” Major Kinsdall cried, coming 
into the room. 

“I beg your pardon, I love you Honorine, 
and this estrangement distracts me. Come, 
let’s make up.” 

“To have you scold me to-morrow?” she 
asked calmly. 

“Never again. I promise to be pleased 
with all you do and say now and forever,” he 
declared rashly. 

“Let’s find Grandmama, son,” suggested 
Damon, taking me by my hand which was 
grasping Honorine’s dress. 

“Have you two made up?” I asked, still 
unsatisfied. 

“Oh yes!” the Major said laughing. 

“Honorine, are you going to marry the 
Major, or are you going to fall out again?” I 
was determined to settle the question. 

“Run away, son.” 

""Are you going to marry the Major T' I 
fairly screamed. 

“I expect I shall, son,” Honorine said 
sweetly. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


109 


The trumpet lilies bloomed outside the 
windows — the oleanders lifted their pink and 
white heads to nod a welcome to the bursting* 
buds of a rose vine. 

The violet bordered beds were all ag-low 
with beauty and frag-rance ; the foliage plants, 
glistening in showy colors and luxuriant 
growth — all this and much more delighted and 
made glad my heart as I ga2;ed in thankfulness 
upon my surroundings. 

“Well, children,” grandma said, “we don’t 
find things exactly as we left them ; but let us 
be grateful that we. have at least the house 
left.” 

“It’s exactly as if we were just beginning 
to keep house,” Honorine remarked. 

“I am sure we have the flowers left,”* 
laughed Celeste as she arranged the vases. 
Celeste was feeling almost delirious to-day. 
Capt. Tremaine would be home to-morrow. 

“Where did you find those vases, honey?”’ 
grandma asked, putting on her glasses for a 
closer inspection. 

“Aunt Mary gave them to me this morn- 
ing — they are son’s.” 

“Hided mor’n dat in my fedder baid,” gig- 
gled the blackest of darkies. 

“Where are the spoons?” grandma asked. 

“Yes, the spoons !” laughed Celeste. 

“The spoons !” echoed Honorine. 


110 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Deys all digged up.” 

“From what place ?” 

“Daddy done digged up a box f’om unner 
de ’nanner tree.” 

“Where is the box?” 

“Oucher, ole mistis ! oucher on de back 
pizzaroo !” Uncle Louis called from the hall 
door. 

“Hit ’pear lak son dunno whots de matter 
wid dat bernanna tree cos hit die,” he laughed. 
“Son dunno all mistesses silber war layin’ 
right dar also. G’long t’ dat kitchen Mar’ann, 
you know mistes ain’t gwine feat no white 
folkses cookin’. Whotcher studdin ’bout, nig- 
ger? Mar’ann feel mighty big a hirin’ f ole 
mistes,” he laughed as he unpacked the silver. 

“Mar’ann’s a free nigger. I ’longs to son, 
myse’f, I does.” 

Our slaves were free; and through the in- 
strumentality of our friend Major Kinsdall, our 
landed possessions were still our own. The 
slave holder of the South died hard, but no 
moan escaped him. His hand to hand struggle 
for Right made him stoical — mayhap desperate. 

The South was never subdued. 

It was awakened out of luxury and intro- 
duced to energy. Latent powers were brought 
into play and for years it has toiled and hoped 
and prayed to re-established its former finan- 
cial and political footing. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


111 


Hope deferred made the heart sick — almost 
wore the heart out; but after all the g’lad frui- 
tion comes. 

After all these weary years of waiting* the 
South is herself ag’ain. The day of her polit- 
ical salvation is at hand. Her jubilee has 
come. Her voice is heard and heeded. 

Southern talent moves of its own volition. 
The Southern heart bears the badg*e of its own 
nobility. Southern principles are as staunch 
and true now as when in the g*ory days of the 
sixties, the Cross of St. Andrew, bathed in 
Southern blood floated triumphantly over an 
hundred battlefields. 

We have crossed the Al-Sirat and all is 
well with us. We are all right at our house. 
The Major and Honorine have at last made up, 
and with Celeste and Captain Tremaine, who 
came back loyal and true, peace and love reign 
supreme. 

Come down among us, O, ye of the North- 
land, and see for yourselves how hospitably 
wide open are Southern hearts and homes. 

The great burden has been lifted, and its 
bitter memories are all gone with the genera- 
tion that engendered them. 

They live, when they live at all, among 
those who have climbed the mountain top, and 
are fast going down into the shadowy land 
beyond. 


112 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


They recall the doomsday of the Confeder- 
acy at Appomattox with the same regretful 
tenderness a mother remembers her dead child. 

The strong young Southern hearts now 
climbing the hill, find naught but sunshine, and 
the monuments that mark the way commemor- 
ate the virtues of the noble and the brave. 

Shall oblivion claim all else ? 



MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


113 


^•‘TOO LATE FOR NERVTT 


[A I,KAF FROM VAI,I,OMBROSA.] 

“There’s three bugg-ies and a cyart ! I 
wonder what’s the matter here? Nervy has 
got lots of comp’ny,” Mrs. Beard remarked 
as she pulled up in front of Mr. Blanks’. The 
white sandy road glittered with heat, as it 
stretched away north and south into dim for- 
ests of oaks. 

Resting upon a rail fence were the shafts 
of three buggies and a rickety cart, and below 
in the shade of a tree was a wagon. “Mis’ 
Lary said yistiddy Mis’ Blanks was mighty 
sick — maybe she’s dead,” ventured the other 
occupant of the cart. “We better go in,” 
Mrs. Beard decided, urged by neighborly in- 
terest and curiosity. 

She drove a little nearer and pushing her 
brown sunbonnet back from her facie, scanned 
the house. 

On the front porch stood a square pine 
table which held the usual water bucket, a tin 
basin set beside it and above hung a long 
towel. From the wall on the left hung several 
saddles, bridles, halters and bits of rope. 


114 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


Dogs, from a tiny terrier to a great un- 
happy looking cur that tugged at a block and 
chain, lay about the house and yard ; the 
hounds stood half erect against the fence bark- 
ing at the new comers. 

“Whoa, Moll!” Mrs. Beard addressed the 
tall, rawboned mule she drove. 

“Take the rope, hun, and le’s tie her 
good, Moll’s terrible t’ slip the bridle.” 

The old lady handed her pink cheeked 
granddaughter a questionable looking plow- 
line. 

“Now, hun, come on, them dawgs aint 
goin’ t’ pester us.” 

She took the child’s hand in hers and 
walked as swiftly as her rheumatic feet would 
allow up the sandy walk into the house. On 
the threshold a woman met her — a woman 
whose very appearance was eloquent of better 
days. 

“How’s all?” Mrs. Beard breathed, awed 
by a nameless dread. 

“Mrs. Blanks died yesterday.” 

“In fact? Po’ Minervy ! How’s Sam a 
takin of it?” 

“He has not been at home for several 
days.” 

“A hawg huntin’?” 

“I suppose so,” was the quiet reply. 

“Sam will die an’ go t’ hawgs yit.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


115 


Over in a corner near a window sat a 
group of neighbors talking in subdued tones. 

“Its plum new,” one said, glancing at the 
shining sewing machine against the wall. 

“Haint never sewed a stitch on it yit. 
Nervy haint,’ Sister Mackey sighed. 

“The stove’s new, too, haint never bin sot 
up,’ Sister E^vans said with a sniif of disgust. 

“Hit’s cur’is how they didn’t come in time 
to he’p po’ Nervy out,” Sister Bangs ventured. 

“Thar comes Sam now. Reckon he 
knows ?” 

“Git Mis’ Vowel t’ tell him.” 

A stout, middle aged man in his shirt 
sleeves dismounted from a mule at the gate 
and came hurriedly into the yard. 

After a whispered consultation, the woman 
of better days advanced to meet him. 

“Hello, Mis’ Vowel!” he shouted good- 
naturedly ; “ what’s up? Camp meetin’ or log 
rollin’?” 

“Neither, Mr. Blanks; your wife — ” 

“What’s the matter with Nervy? Had a 
conniption fit ? ” 

“She is dead.” 

“Dead! Who? Nervy?” He asked, bewild- 
eredly. 

“She died yesterday.” 

“An’ me in the woods after them blamed 
hawgs! Nervy dead! I’ll be hanged if I 
b’leeve it! ” 


116 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Come and see.” She led the way into a 
back room where in awful calmness lay the 
dead wife. 

The world said Sam Blanks was a hard 
case ; a man without feeling* or principle ; hard 
workingf himself, he extorted hard, constant 
work from every one about him, and the deli- 
cate, sensitive wife mig*ht have fared better 
with a different husband. 

Sam Blanks was not intentionally a cruel 
man, but he was so absorbed in the thoug*ht of 
money-g*etting* that that one idea swallowed up 
every other. 

He stood g'azing* in a stunned way at the 
poor pinched face and folded hands so unused 
to idleness, and the straig*ht, frail fig*ure upon 
the loung*e impressed him as nothing* else had 
ever done. 

Mrs. Vowel turned towards the door. 

“Oh, Lord!” he g-roaned, “Mis Vowel, was 
I good t’ Nervy? You’ve been in the house 
three year and you know ; was I good to 
Nervy?” 

“I am no man’s judge. God forbid that I 
should judge any one !” 

“What’s a feller to do? By George! Didn’t 
I buy that new sewin’ machine — give Stinson a 
clean forty dollars for it an’ set an’ nussed it 
all the way from Camden — jest sot right by 
that machine t’ keep the wagin from joltin’ it to 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


117 


pieces? You nor no other man can say I didn’t. 
An’ that new cookin’ stove, I gfive a bigf thirty- 
five dollars for. Bross can tell you so. An’ 
here’s Nervy dead! Never got to sew a danged 
stitch nor cook a blamed dinner on them neither! 
I tell you, Mis’ Vowel, its doggoned mean — its 
a darn shame!” he blubbered. 

Something like a smile flitted over Mrs. 
Vowel’s patrician features. 

Sam Blank’s face was smeared with streaks 
of black from his dirty hands, and his bald head 
made a grotesque picture with its patches and 
daubs of dirt. 

Mrs. Vowel reverently covered the dead 
face and left the room. 

Outside the sun shone and the birds sang. 
The south wind breathed a melody through the 
oaks, and behind and beyond lay the broad 
expanse of blooming cotton fields. 

Sam Blanks was the best farmer in Canaan 
[not the historical Canaan of Galilee, but Ca- 
naan in Ouachita county, Arkansaw ; whose 
actualities were more picturesque than its his- 
tory and a retrospection fills the mind of a 
native with memories of the loveliest of Arca- 
dias], his fences were always well built, his 
fields well cultivated and his cattle and mules 
well kept. 

To be sure his neighbors did sometimes 
accuse him of appropriating more wild hogs 


118 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


from the swamps than his “claim” allowed 
and more than once report was rife of his hav- 
ing- burned a neig-hbor’s ginhouse and of his 
having “laid down” the fence of a neighbor’s 
cornfield that his stock might enter and de- 
stroy. 

His mule had been “tracked” many a 
time when he had never suspected. 

Though he was held in such contempt, 
his gentle, patient wife was much loved and 
respected. She had “married below her and 
lived to repent,” people said. 

“Sam’s a cryin’,” Mrs. Beard whispered 
to Mrs. Mackey as the sobbing reached them. 

“Sam orter cry. Sister Beard,” Mrs. 
Mackey said, stolidly. 

“He orter cry blood.” 

“You know, Sister Mackey, the good book 
says ‘jedge not,’” Mrs. Beard said, settling 
her glasses. “Hemme tell you. Sister Beard, 
Sam never let Nervy have nothin'" she took 
pleasure in ; he even flung away her flowers — 
boxes an’ all. He ’lowed ’twern’t no use of 
flowers, nobody could eat sich trash, an’ told 
Nervy t’ plant ’taters ; they was ‘most as 
purty as cawn,’ he ’lowed. Yes, Sister Beard, 
Sam orter weep blood. I said it an’ I say it 
agin’, an’ say it ’til my tongue draps.” 
“Lawsa me!” Sister Evans exclaimed in mild 
astonishment. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


119 


“That ain’t a patchin’, Sister Ivins. 
Sam’s always talkin’ to Nervy about no wo- 
man bein fittin’ to live if she ain’t able to slin^ 
the pots an’ skillets,” Mrs. Bang’s remarked 
when she had found her snuff. 

“Have some o’ mine,” Sister Beard pro- 
posed, handing- her snuff-box to Mrs. Evans. 
“An’ hits my opinion that a sling-in’ pots an’ 
skillets is what killed Nervy at last. Lord! 
Thar’s Sam!” 

“Mis’ Mackey,” he said, advancing- toward 
the g-roup, “was I g-ood to Nervy?” 

Mrs. Mackey looked upon his mottled face 
and tear-dimned eyes without pity. 

“Was I g-ood to Nervy?” he asked, 
sternly. 

“Well, Sam,” Mrs. Mackey said, slowly, 
smoothing- her white apron over her knee. 
“You orter know.” 

“Was I good to Nervy?” he thundered. 

“Now, Sam,” Mrs. Mackey said, boldly, 
“from my standpint you wasn’t no better than 
you mought a bin.” 

“Sister Mackey means you mought a been 
more thoughtfuller like,” Mrs. Beard softly 
spoke, from the fulness of her heart. 

“Did not I buy that cussed machine f’ 
Nervy?” hoping for a gleam of comfort. 

“You got it too late, Sam.” 

“Didn’t I git a cookin’ stove?” 


120 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


“Too late, too late, Sam.” 

The burly figure cringed and writhed as 
she went on pitilessly. 

“That dinner had to be on that table eg- 
zactly at twelve ; whether Nervy was sick or 
well them ban’s had t’ be sarved. She never 
got t’ go nowhar — not even to meetin’. Why? 
Cause Sam Blanks rid after cattle an’ hawgs 
all day a Sundays an’ worked a weeky days. 
Thar’s jes one pusson livin’ in Sam Blankses 
house an’ that’s Sam Blanks hisse’f. You 
have took pow’ful good keer yourse’f, Sam ; 
nobody’s disputin’ that p’int as I knows of.” 

The man walked away, his eyes upon the 
ground. 

“He’ll miss her,” Mrs. Beard sighed. 

“He orter miss her an’ miss her bad,” de- 
clared the inexorable Sister Mackey. 

“Our ole Bill mule missed ole Jack after 
pap sold him ’cause Bill an’ Jack pulled to- 
gether ten or twelve year a haulin’; that’s the 
the way Sam’s gwine to miss Nervy, too,” 
Sister Evans said. 

“Egs^actly, Sister Ivins,” Mrs. Mackey 
endorsed the remark heartily. 

“Sam will have t’ hire a nigger t’ fling in 
wood an’ sling pots an’ skillets now.” 

“Yes, an’ niggers aint the equinomicalest 
creeters in the world neither. Nervy’s dyin’s 
goin’ t’ cost Sam mo’n he’s a thinkin’ ” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


121 


“Sam’s a good pervider — always plenty o’ 
hawg an’ hominy whar Sam air,’’ Mrs. Beard 
said, with her soul full of pity for the stricken 
creature whose sobs filled the house. 

“That’s so,” Mrs. Amos admitted, “an’ 
fur’s I’m intrusted taint nair bit o’ my biznis 
an’ f’ my part I druther not have sich a big lot 
o’ vittles an’ have more kind treatment.” 

“I aint like you. Sister Amos. I druther 
my Jarn’d give me a outdacious beatin’ ev’ry 
sadd’y night an’ lemme have all the vittles an’ 
clo’se I want as t’ be lovin’ an’ git no grub ner 
clo’es neither. I’ll take the beatin’ every time 
t’ git what I want,” Mrs. Evans said with a 
laugh. 

“Sam was tolerable good t’ Nervy. Sam’s 
sorter keerlis — no keerliser with Nervy than 
anybody else — he’s nachelly keerlis.” Mrs. 
Beard spoke earnestly. 

“Po’ Nervy was the religiousest woman 
you ever seen but she never had no chance f’ 
nothin’, po’ thing ! It was cook an’ wash 
dishes an’ wash dishes an’ cook all the time 
an’ Sam never seed she’s a breakin’ down,” 
Mrs. Bangs sighed. 

“Whot’s his two eyes for if they aint t’ 
see. Bet ef a hawg er er mule’s in ha’f a mile 
o’ Sam* he’d see ’em pow’ful quick.” Mrs. 
Mackey was a remorseless Nemesis. 


122 MA GNOLIAS ABLO OM. 

“Sam was keerlis — I don’t dispute that, 
but Nervy never wanted f’ the needceserties o’ 
life. Ef Dick Amos was always a billin’ an’ a 
cooin’ an’ a kissin’ an’ never bringfin’ no g’rub 
inter the house, Matildy’d migfhty soon git 
tired o’ that way o’ doin’ ’cause its mighty po’ 
fillin’. Billin’ an’ cooin’ an’ kissin’ don’t stick 
to the ribs, it takes vittles — that’s what,” Sis- 
ter Ponder observed. 

“All the same I’ll take cooin’ an’ kissin’. 
I was raised a pet — bein’ paw’s unly gal.” 

“Sister Amos looks like a pet,” Mrs. 
Mackey said dryly. 

A smothered laugh went ’round the circle. 

“A little yaller kennary bird er a pet 
rabbit!” 

“Sister Amos’ ample figure swayed and 
rocked and shook as she vainly struggled 
against the laugh her quaint old neighbor’s 
worc^s and manner provoked. 

“Yes, ’Tildy is a furty little pet! It’s 
plum cur’is we aint seen that afore now.” 

“Hush!” whispered Sister Bangs. 

“Sh-sh-sh,” Sister Ponder warned. 

“I think,” Mrs. Vowel said, coming across 
the room, “we will have Mr. Lonius preach 
the funeral to-day. His regular appointment 
is at the school-house to-day, isn’t it?” 

“You’re right. Mis’ Vowel,” said Mrs. 
Beard. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


123 - 


“Hits plum proper, Mis’ Vowel,” Mrs. 
Mackey assured her. 

“That’s what I say. Did you ast Sam?” 
Mrs. Baug-s inquired. 

“No, Mrs. Bang's, I did not.” 

“Sam — he don’t need no axin’,” Mrs. Ev- 
ans decided. 

“Mis’ Vowel, you’ve b^en here three year 
a teachin’ in that Canaan school-house an’ a 
tryin’ t’ he’p folks out. The very las’ time I 
seen po’ Nervy alive she was a tellin’ of me 
how good an’ he’pful you was to her. The 
Lord’ll bless you for it. Sister Vowel,” and 
Sister Bangs buried her face in her apron and 
wept aloud. 

A tear stole down the teacher’s pale face, 
and again the half smile came and went. 

At half past two in the afternoon Sister 
Beard announced that Brother Lonius was 
coming. 

A crowd had gathered around the gate, 
and upon the fence sat the men and boys, 
while the house was thronged with women and 
children. The circuit-rider stood at the end of 
the large front room, his Bible and hymn-book 
lay on a small table in front of him. 

Mrs. Vowel sat with the group near the 
window and the master of the house walked 
restlessly about the room. 


124 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


A psalm was read, the preacher “lined” a 
hymn, which all sang ; then a prayer was 
offered. 

If uncultured, the eulogy which followed 
had at least the beauty of sincerity; his trem- 
bling sing-songy voice carried with it a moral 
and religious power — a specific agent for a 
specific purpose. 'Sincerity was the circuit- 
rider’s most potent expression of eloquence and 
transcended every other form of his convincing 
persuasion. Sisters Mackey, Beard and Evans 
responded with fervent amens. 

“Though walkin’ thorny an’ onthankful 
paths here our sister now treads the golden 
streets,” spoke the preacher with much 
feeling. 

“Nervy never expected no thankin’ — she 
never wanted no thankin,” broke from Sam 
Blanks’ quivering lips. 

“You all talk like I’d killed Nervy or 
starved her! I didn’t know a darned thing 
about it — was a huntin’ hawgs in the 
swamps.” 

“Hush, Sam, nobody’s said you killed 
Nervy — leastwise not shot her nor killed her 
with a ax. Hush up! Go on. Brother Eo- 
nius.” Sister Bangs settled her ample figure 
back ill her chair. 

“What for?” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


125 


“’Cause its Christian - like. ' Dry up^ 
Sam,” commanded Sister Mackey, with fire in 
her eye. 

Sam Blanks was silent, his rough, unre- 
fined nature at last grasping something concil- 
iating if not comforting; his conscience, alas! 
awakening to the depth and breadth of his life- 
long selfishness. The future stretched out 
before him like a pitiless, vast, uncompromis- 
ing chaos of nothingness — now he realijjed the 
enormity of his sins against her whom he had 
sworn “to love and cherish.” 

“Dis’n t’ Brother Lonnius, Sam,” Mrs. 
Beard said, coaxingly. 

In Sam Blanks’ dense, coarse brain the idea 
of immortality had never taken root notwith- 
standing the many efforts Sister Mackey had 
made to impress upon him its vital importance. 
A feeling of injustice took possession of him. 
He looked down upon the chill, dead face — 
touched the folded, work worn hands and pit- 
eously appealed to her who had so long meekly 
endured and made no moan. 

“I bought you that sewen merchine — 
bought it jes f’ you,. Nervy. An’ a bran new 
stove, too. No body will say I was good to 
you. Nervy — was I mean — say — was I mean t’ 
you. Nervy?” he implored. 

“Taint no use o’ talkin’ t’ daid folks, Sam. 
You know she can’t hear nair word. Yer good- 


126 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


ness comes too late, too late f’ Nervy,” Mrs. 
Mackey’s rasping- voice broke in upon his sig-hs 
and sobs. 

“Thar’s a g'ray hair on her head. I didn’t 
know Nervy was a g-ittin’ g'ray. She ain’t 
old — Nervy ain’t,” sobbed Sam Blanks. 

“No, Sam; Nervy ain’t old in nothin’ but 
hard work an’ dis’pintment. She was a mig-hty 
purty young thing when you brung her here. 
She shows her keepin’. Nervy does, po’ thing!” 
Sister Mackey observed, smoothiug down her 
apron. 

A fresh torture presented itself. Sam 
Blanks’ memory was merciless. He lived again 
that bright June day when he took his pretty, 
trusting bride from her mother’s arms — safer 
refuge than a husband’s — promising to fill her 
young heart with the love and peace which is 
born of perfect trust — alas! he recalled the 
harshness which had met her timid pleadings a 
year afterwards — pleadings and tears for a 
touch of her mother’s hand, a glimpse of the 
old home love-light. 

“Po’ Sam!” Sister Beard sighed, watching 
the agony on his face. 

“Ther ain’t no use a cryin’ over spilt milk, 
Sam. Ef yer’d a treated Nervy more like she’d 
a been a woman ’stead o’ a mule she’d a been 
fat and sassy t’-day. This ’s yer own work, 
Sam.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


127 


“ ‘Jedge not,’ Sister Mackey,” Mrs. Beard 
said softly. 

“Why’nt somebody tell me I was a killin’ 
Nervy?” 

“/ never seen she’s po’ly!” Sam Blanks 
declared, touching her smoothly brushed hair 
with his great, grimy land. 

“Come ’way Sam, come ’way. She’s all 
right now. Nervy’ll never be po’ly no mo’ ” 
Sister Beard touched his arm and wept si- 
lently. 

“Don’t take her away,” he begged with 
the persistency of a child. * 

“Bet Nervy alone;” he implored. “I want 
to tell Nervy a heap o’ things. I know she’ll 
hear. I want t’ tell her I didn’t mean to treat 
her bad an’ ” 

“Too late, Sam, too late f’ Nervy.” 

“Jedge not, Sister Mackey,” Sister Beard 
sobbed. 

“Don’t take Nervy now, wait ’til t’mor- 
rer,” Sam Blanks pleaded as they bore the 
casket to the grove of stunted cedars back of 
the garden where two short, sunken mounds 
mutely told a story of buried hope and ashes 
of love. 

Sam Blanks’ life spread, panorama-like, 
before his quickened senses as he realized in a 
half-dazed way that it was Nervy they low- 
ered into the grave, and when all was over he 


128 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


allowed himself led away. Like a child he 
followed Mrs. Beard’s bidding. The hopeless 
days and weeks dragged away on leaden feet ; 
the past remained a dim, ghost-haunted mem- 
ory ; the future a long, gray, endless road 
stretched out before him, paved with heart- 
breaks and watered with drops of agony. Sam 
Blanks was rarely ever at home. Often he 
spent weeks alone with his helpless misery in 
the cypress swamps, until a year had drawn 
its torturous length between the doomsday of 
his happiness and the afternoon he came home, 
after a protracted stay in the swamps, sick, 
sick unto death. 

He “didn’t keer,” he told Sister Beard. 

Anything was better than the hopeless 
torture of the past year. 

With the peace of Heaven in her soul, good 
Sister Beard had done what she could for him 
that long, dreary year “after Nervy died,” 
and when he lay delirious in the throes of 
swamp fever she hovered around his pillow 
like an angel of mercy. 

Like a Nemesis, Sister Mackey also at- . 
tended. She shook her head ominously when 
the sick man muttered of “Nerv}" ; cook-stove 
— sewin’ — mershiae — forty — dollars — po’ — 
Nervy — a darned — shame,” and, as into the 
darkess of night his soul drifted, he whis- 
pered, “Too — late — too — late — f ’ — Nervy. ’ ’ 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


129 


AN OLD MAINS STORY. 


[a from vaIvI,ombrosa.] 

T he afternoon sun shone brightly 

into the dirty little waiting room, where 
I sat impatiently awaiting my train, and upon 
the closed windows the flies hummed drowsily. 
Only one more expectant passenger for the 
delayed up-train sat dreamily looking from a 
window. She was a gray-haired, refined look- 
ing woman. 

“You seem impatient,” she at last spoke. 
“Indeed I am,” I confessed. 

“Going far?” 

“Oh, no; only about twenty miles; but I 
am anxious to get back to my babies.” 

“You have a bright, happy face. I dare 
say you are a good mother,” the woman said, 
walking over to my side. 

“Thank you. I try to be a good wife and 
mother — and daughter,” I added. “I have just 
been down home to nurse my father through a 
dangerous illness.” 

“Down home!” she repeated. “How good 
that sounds I Are you a contented woman?” she 
suddenly asked. 


9 


130 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“I’m afraid not,” I said, laughing-. “I’ve 
not money enough to feel perfectly contented.” 

“Money!” she exclaimed. “Money! money! 
money! That ever-wanted money! Child, shall 
I tell you my story? I think you need to hear it. 
I can read no sorrow in your face. You are 
happy and careless and have no thought for 
the morrow. Nor do you appreciate your pres- 
ent happiness, because you do not realize it.” 

“Go on,” I said, “I shall listen attentively 
and appreciatively. We have three hours to 
wait.” 

“I am an old maid ! Are you startled at 
the frank confession ? 

“I am an old maid, I repeat, and it is no- 
body’s business if I am ! 

“Unlike other old maids, I have never had 
a lover — no cherished, long-ago romance ever 
lingered lovingly in my thoughts, for I never 
was personally acquainted with a romance. I 
am also a member of the numerous family of 
‘Have-been.’ 

“And wherefore? Ah, I’ve been too much 
occupied with mundane affairs. A bread-and- 
butter battle holds no time for flights of fancy, 
no blissful moments of reverie for love or 
lovers, it is one season of unremitting toil, one 
long watchful struggle against the wolf at the 
door. 

“I have not walked in darkness all these 
years. Not all of gloom has shrouded my 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


131 


narrow, up-hill trail, for the sweet, fresh love 
of a little child lighted the way. I had some 
one to toil for, to love, nay, even to adore. 
The disinterested love of a little child is, we 
all know, the sweetest, purest and holiest of 
all love. It is the love of angels. 

“This day-star was my niece, my bright 
little Angela — my only sister’s child. It is a 
story of her I set out to tell. 

“We lived in the old home, the old square 
plantation home, where I was born and reared. 
It is still standing in picturesque beauty, half 
mantled in ivy. 

“‘Plantation Content,’ as our home was 
called, was once the finest on the river, but 
when our army of slaves were freed, our tools 
were gone. Who can work and earn without 
tools? Therefore, our dear old Plantation Con- 
tent became but a place of sad neglect, showing 
year by year, less indication of its former thrift 
and grandeur. 

“A few families of our ex-slaves remained, 
but the majority sought pastures new and 
many of our broad, fertile acres were untended 
and neglected. 

“My sister and I were left alone, the rem- 
nant of a large happy family. Two of our 
brave young brothers had fallen at Corinth 
and two older ones perished in Northern pris- 
ons. My sister’s husband reached home only 
to die and she, too, soon followed. 


132 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“The next year my parents laid down their 
burdens of sorrow and rested under the tangle 
of ivy in the garden. 

“So we were left alone — my baby, Angela, 
and I — and life was a serious problem on our 
once prosperous Plantation Content. Over the 
broad lawn waved the high grass, fearlessly 
defiant of the rusty scythe. The stables and 
barn were empty and desolation and poverty 
were written everywhere. 

“Inside, the dear old mansion showed still 
plainer Time’s relentless work. The once ele- 
gant carpets were worn and faded, and the 
stained, frescoed walls told a pitiful story of 
how the mighty had fallen. The faithful 
house-servants never left us and grew gray in 
our service. Though their presence made the 
bread-and-butter problem more difi&cult, they 
were a comfort and pleasure. 

“The long years in which I taguht the 
neighborhood school seem now a blissful pe- 
riod — those years when my Angel walked by 
my side, slept in my arms and brightened my 
life with her innocent presence. 

“When she was fifteen, I sent my child to 
the sweet seclusion of the Convent of El Sanct- 
uario, where my sister and I had been educated, 
and for three succeeding years I lived alone at 
Plantation Content. 

“The summer of her graduation she spent 
with a school friend in another state. I still 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


133 


taug*ht the neighborhood school and pinched 
and saved for my child. 

“Then she sighed for home — and home she 
came, but alas ! how changed ! 

“My laughing, rosy child had become a 
tall, pale, elegant woman. It almost breaks 
my old heart to recall the picture — even now, 
after so many years, the memory of that au- 
tumn comes back wdth cruel force. 

“One Saturday afternoon, I shall never 
forget. I was sewing on the long back gal- 
lery, my child sat near me, the dying sun- 
shine fell full on her face — a face so lovely, so 
pure and perfect that it made me think of the 
sweet white rose she held in her hand. The 
servant arrived from the country post office, 
whither she had sent him, and gave her several 
letters and packages of papers. 

“I watched her eagerly rend the envelope 
of the selected letter, and with a glad cry she 
sat beside me to read. 

“I went on with my work, silently awaiting 
her pleasure. 

“‘Here’s Joe’s letter. Auntie. Want to 
read it?’ 

“And who is Joe?” I asked, taking the 
closely-written sheets from her hand and ad- 
justing my glasses. 

“Ah, Joe is your prospective nephew,” she 
laughed gaily. 


134 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“I was g-lad to hear that laug-h and silently 
thanked God that my child could be glad and 
care free. It sounded like the gay freshness 
of a valley stream. I read the letter she gave 
me. It was protestations of love, it breathed 
fond promises, undying fealty and reckless de- 
votion. A tiny pang shot through my selfish 
old heart — I recognized it as jealousy and 
choked it out of existence. I chided my nar- 
row soul and for a moment despised myself, 
but the pain went as quickly as it came, went 
never to return again. 

“Why don’t you ask me about Joe, Auntie? 
He knows all about you, bless your beautiful 
heart!” she cried, giving me a spasmodic 
squeeze. 

“Don’t you love Joe, Auntie?” 

“Do you?” I asked smiling. 

“Of course I do!” 

“Then, my Angel, I love Joe too,” I said 
heartily. 

“Thank you. Auntie, I knew you would.” 

“My child was herself again — her own 
bright, winsome self, and my old heart bounded 
gratefully. 

“The days sped pleasantly. Angela as- 
sisted me in the school room and she also had 
organized a music class, which she taught at 
home. The old piano, a relic of the past, had 
been overhauled and tuned and she had bright- 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


135 


ened the old rooms with her own handiwork 
until they seemed quite new and beautiful. 

“This old Plantation Content is the dear- 
est and sweetest home in the world,” she de- 
clared, after wheedling- Uncle Sam into mow- 
ing- the lawn and tying- up the rose vines. 

“I am glad you love it, my child, I said 
gratefully. 

“For several months letters came twice a 
week from ‘Joe’ and no fairy was ever more 
blithsome than my Angel. 

“The next summer Joe came. What a hand- 
some, devoted lover he was, and how I sympa- 
thized with and enjoyed their happiness ! 

“To joy as to anguish an end must come, 
and into the light of my child’s life came a 
cruel darkness — a cloud so heavy with gloom 
that only the Infinite Hands were strong enough 
to lift it. 

“One day we watched for Joe after school — 
he always came for us — but as it was growing 
late, we concluded to return without him — ” 

“There’s m}^ train!” I cried, joyfully. 
“Come, let’s get aboard. I shall take you 
home with me and there we can talk uninter- 
ruptedly.” 

********* 

That evening, after tea, in my sweet home- 
nest, I begged my friend to go on with her 
touching story. 


136 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


She held my dimpled baby in her arms, 
gazing- in tearful pleasure upon his sleeping 
face. 

“I believe you do love children,” my hus- 
band smiled in affectionate approval. 

“You had started home from school,” I 
prompted. 

“Yes,” she sighed. 

“We had gone only a short distance, when 
we met our old cook. Aunt Mittie. She was 
crying bitterly and wringing her hands. 

“Oh, Missy! Oh, my po’ baby!” she cried. 
“My po’ chile. Mammy caynt tell yer.” 

“Why, Mammy, what is the matter?” 
Angela asked, running to meet her. “What is 
it. Mammy?” 

“Ah, honey! Po’ Maws Joe!” 

“Well, what about Joe?” 

“Maws Joe — oh, I caynt tell dat !” 

“Aunt Mittie,” I said, calmly, “tell us 
what it is — ” 

“I caynt, honey ; I caynt kill my baby.” 

“Tell your baby. Mammy — your baby who 
loves you. What is it about, Joe?” 

“Mawse Joe done hurt — de gun done 
busted,” she wailed. 

On we sped — Angela seemed to fly home- 
ward. 

“I spec Maws Joe done daid,” Aunt Mittie 
sobbed, “he’s a shootin’ birds f’ Missy an de 
gun done busted.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


137 


Aunt Mittie was rig-ht. The g-laze of 
death had already shut out the light of earth 
from Joe’s beautiful eyes. He lay prone upon 
the blood-stained grass, his gun beside him, 
wrecked and useless now. 

The weeks that followed seem, in retro- 
spection, ghost-haunted and thick with the 
ashes of dead-and-buried love. 

Angela shed no tear, made no moan, and, 
when the winter winds sighed among the pines, 
she said one dreary night : “Auntie, I so long 
to see the sweet-faced sisters at El Sanctuario 
— I need the counsel of the Reverend Mother. 
Will you be unhappy without your child?’’ 

“My love,” I answered bravely, “it will 
make me happy only to see my child content.” 

She smiled — such a wan, pitiful smile, 
kissed and thanked me, and the next week re- 
turned to El Sanctuario. 

A year later, she wrote me a long, appeal- 
ing letter, to which I gave the invariable reply : 
“My happiness is to see my child content.” 
She would never come home again — my child, 
my good angel — the light of my dimming eyes 
would never be mine again. 

A gulf vast as eternity, as bitter as death, 
as implacable as fate, divided my child from 
my aching heart. God pity the woman whose 
one ewe lamb is buried within convent walls ! 

I stifled the rebellious cry of my soul and 
worked harder to live bravely and well. The 


138 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


ache that tugs at my heart is, I fancy, the same 
exquisite agony, the same tender regretfulness 
with which a mother remembers her dead child. 
I think even angels weep over such dumb, help- 
less misery. 

********* 

A band of white crape fluttered in the 
balmy air of Bl-Sanctuario. 

A band of white crape, emblematic of pur- 
ity, and telling of the flight of a soul from earth 
to paradise. 

Sister Angelique had reached the grand 
finale. My child had solved the riddle of life. 
She had crossed the Darien of Death and now 
her dear little form lay white and silent in the 
quaint old chapel. 

Except the band of white crape, there 
were no unusual signs of mourning about the 
building. Little need had they for outward 
show, these sisters whose dress and manner of 
life were as those who lived within the shadow 
of the grave. The air was heavy with the 
breath of flowers and a sense of sadness was 
ever pervading ; yet the presence of death 
brought no further sorrow, for it came to my 
child with a joyous invitation to go up Higher 
— to close a life of hard self-denial and auster- 
ity, to accept the reward for which the earth- 
struggle was a preparation. Not sorrow, but 
hope; a sense of gain, not of loss, was the pre- 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


139 


dominant feeling- at the funeral of my child — 
even in death she was mine. 

The chapel was divided into two parts. 
The outer chapel into which the public were 
admitted and the inner chapel where, beyond 
the wooden grating-, was a row of iron bars. 

Beyond this hung a heavy black pall by 
means of which the nuns were shut in from all 
contact with the world. 

The requiem mass had begun when the 
pall was drawn aside, revealing the interior of 
the inner chapel. In front of the outer chapel, 
on the Gospel side, was a pine coffin — abso- 
lutely plain and rude in construction. In that 
coffin reposed the frail figure of my own child,^ 
known here as Sister Angelique; her white 
mantle was draped about her shoulders and 
touched her scarce whiter cheek. In her beau- 
tiful hands was her written vow of chastity 
and a crucifix lay, a blessed emblem, above.^ 
In life a black pall had covered her sweet face^ 
now it was drawn aside. The delicate fea- 
tures were a revelation. No stain of worldly 
dross was upon them, no lines by passion 
traced on that peaceful brow. A glance told a 
story of perfect -rest, of absolute tranquility 
of soul, even the. pangs of disease and death 
left no mark. An expression of repose, a glim- 
mer of “joy unspeakable and full of glory’’ 
shone from her placid features. 


140 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


The dead face of my child mutely spoke of 
her marvelous meekness and profound humility. 
The spirit of dedication had been strong- within 
her. Her renunciation of the world had been 
complete, her absorption in God’s work had 
been entire. 

The sisters stood in a semi-circle back of 
the coffin, each holding- a lig-hted candle while 
the funeral services were being chanted, then 
a sister came forward and spread a white nap- 
kin over my child’s face and the plain, broad 
cover was screwed down. 

I remember how the sisters knelt as they 
took my child away. If there was g-rief or 
tears on the faces of the kneeling- sisters, the 
world never knew. 

My own heart gave a throb of joy, as the 
thoug-ht came to me that the oblig-ation my 
child had signed and sworn lasted only until 
death relieved her. In Heaven, she would 
again be my own child and I thanked God for 
the thought. It was Heaven-sent. 

Long years have passed since then and my 
hair is almost white. I tread with uncertain 
steps down towards “the valley and the 
shadow.’’ Sometimes, when alone, I fancy I 
hear the rustle of wings and a soft, tender 
melody seems floating through the air, and I 
strain my dim old eyes to catch a glimpse of my 
Angel, for I feel that she is ever near. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


141 


^^FOR Missrr 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH. 


[a IvEAF from vaeeombrosa.] 

A GROTESQUE PICTURE he made- 
nodding- on the wooden bench in front of 
his cabin in the old deserted Quarter street. 

His uncovered head — a cushion of g-ray 
wool bobbed up and down, then sank on his 
chest only to rise again in pitiful palsied jerks. 
Half closed were the dim old eyes, that had 
once sparkled with merriment or softened with 
pity, for, according to plantation record. Daddy 
Ben was “a mighty good-hearted man.” 

One foot was stretched upon a chair in 
front of him, a chair with a deer-skin seat. 
The other was twisted and turned with the 
aches and distortions of eighty rheumatic win- 
ters. Those old limbs were well-nigh useless 
now, and he sat in the sunshine and dreamed 
of the good old times when the now silent 
Quarter street was teeming with life and merry 
vigor — when he had “cut the pigeon wing” 
with a dusky belle and gaily led “down the 
middle” in the Old Virginia reel, or held his 


142 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


own in the “Hen Wallow dance” with the best 
of them. 

By his side, against the logs of his cabin, 
leaned his well worn crutches, for it had been 
many a day since Daddy had walked without 
his wooden props. 

Down in the “big house” whose white 
walls and red roof gleamed through and above 
the oaks and shrubbery lived the last of the 
proud house of Taylor. A fine old family of 
antebellum times, but one remained, the daugh- 
ter of Col. John Taylor, Mrs. Robert Royston. 

The goodly heritage of a grand old name 
and the old, worn out plantation and — Daddy, 
was all that remained of the wealth and luxury 
to which Eva Taylor was born. 

“How can I tell him? Think of it! Poor 
old Daddy nursed my father in his babyhood 
and all the years of his life he has been so true 
and faithful. I cannot tell him, Robert,” Mrs. 
Royston sobbed. 

“It is but natural you should feel as you 
do. I am warmly attached to the old man my- 
self, but I know as you do that he will be as 
well taken care of there as here,” replied Mr. 
Royston. 

“/ don’t know any such thing nor do 
you,” she declared with spirit. “The idea of 
one of our people being sent to the Poor House! 
Oh, Robert ! something must be done. We 
must keep Daddy!” she cried. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


143 


“Of course,” she went on softening* (as 
women will) when she saw her husband’s trou- 
bled face, “I don’t expect you to feel as I do, 
but honestly, Robert, if Daddy was one of your 
own dear old darkies would you send him to 
the Poor House?” 

“Indeed! Do you remember what became 
of Maum Maria?” her husband asked, smiling 
now. 

“Oh, but Maum ’Ria was rude and so un- 
pleasant, too. She acted as if I didn’t know 
what was good for my own child. I was so 
glad she went to the Poor House — cross old 
thing! But to send Daddy — dear old Daddy 
Ben! Robert, you can’t appreciate — ” 

“My dear Eva, I do appreciate your feel- 
ings. It cut me to the heart to send Maum 
Maria but I was obliged to do it. Now be 
reosonable. It is a question of bread and but- 
ter, my love. We are simply too poor to main- 
tain a useless old negro, no matter how much 
we may long to keep him with us, to smooth 
his downward path; we simply cannot, my 
dear. You had best tell him, he will take it 
kindest from you.” 

“Tell him what, Robert?” 

“That he will be taken to the Poor House 
to-morrow morning.” 

“Do you think I can make him under- 
stand?” she tearfully inquired when she had 
laid the little one in his crib. 


144 . 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


“I don’t see why, I am sure.” 

“You know how garrulous Daddy is — he 
begins to talk the minute he sees me and goes 
on and on. Oh, Robert ! it’s a dreadful thing 
to do. I know papa wouldn’t like it.” 

“Go on, Eva, make the old man understand 
that he leaves to-morrow for .” 

“Don’t say it again!” she cried hyster- 
ically. “Oh, the shame, the humiliation, the 
pity of it! Too poor to feed one poor, old worn- 
out darkey, worn-out, too, in our service !” she 
sobbed. 

“Go on — before the boy awakens — that is 
if you are going at all.” 

“You need not be so cross. Heaven knows 
it’s hard enough as it is,” she sighed, tying the 
faded ribbons of her garden hat. 

“I can’t help it, papa,” she sobbed as she 
walked down the grass-grown Quarter street. 
“We are so wretchedly poor,” she whispered, 
as if defending her action against the accusing 
voice of her dead-and-gone father. 

Daddy Ben still dozed peacefully, while 
from the martin box, nailed under the eaves, 
came an encouraging twitter, a pleasant flutter 
and then a surprised chirping of the entire 
family. From two bee gums under a plum 
tree came the hum and buzz of busy workers, 
and a big red rooster crowed warningly as 
Mrs. Royston approached. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


145 


Throug-h her unchecked tears she saw the 
knotted, trembling hands folded over the feeble 
old heart whose every pulsation was of loving 
loyalty for her and hers. 

“How can I tell him!” she said, half 
strangled by tears, She touched the drooping 
head gently. “Daddy!” she whispered chok- 

ingly- 

A prolonged snore was the reply. 

“Daddy! Poor, pitiful old daddy!” 

“Huh !” the old man grunted, half open- 
ing his eyes. “Huh! Whodat?” 

“Daddy, I came to tell you that — ” 

“Whotcher cryin’ ’bout, Missey, honey? 
Li’l son sick ?” 

“Ah, no.” 

“Maws Rob’t?” 

“No, daddy, I came to tell you 'that Robert 
said — ” 

“Yessum, Maws Ro’bt mighty fine ge’m- 
man.” 

“Robert said—” she began again, desper- 
ately. 

“Dullaw, chile! Hokkum yer a weepin’ 
’bout dat? Ef Maws Rob’t was jes a perfes- 
ser — let ’lone a ’zorter, he’d git dar ; but, 
honey, hit do sho’ pear lak Maws Rob’t ai’nt a 
studyin’ de sallyvation o’ his soul ; hit p’ntly 
do look dat a way. But doe,” he continued re- 


10 


146 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


flectively, “Maws Robt’s folks is Prista’yans, 
an’ me’n’ dem caint set hawses some how er 
rether. Sent Poll, he pi’ntly says ’Simon Pe- 
ter lub dow me mor’n dese?’ den’s when Sent 
Poll’s a aimin’ ’^actly ’t Maws Rob’t, cos dat 
ge’mman air in a tight hole, sho’s yer bawn. 
Missey, de watter got t’ go clean ober Maws 
Rob’t, ’fp’ he kin call sallyvation his’n. But 
don’t be no ways cowed. Missy, cos de Bawd 
gwine nip Maws Rob’t when he aint a lookin’, 
some dese days. He’ll be cotched yit, cos dat 
de promos’. I gits t’ my pra’r yistiddy.” 

. A satisfied chuckle shook his withered 
frame, and, as if suddenly remembering, he 
slowly drew his foot from the chair. 

“Jes do look ’t dis onmannerly ole nigger! 
Mr. Benjamine Taylor, nigger gen’man, a 
’longin’ t’ de Taylor ’stocracy — a sott’n here 
same’s a disreggardable ole hawg an’ my young 
mistis’ a stan’in ! Nigger, be shame, he shame! 
Here, Missy, jes tek dis seat and sot down. 
Skuze yer ole fool daddy, honey, I bin a chatt’n 
wid yer pawpy, honey, an’ Maws Joe, t’day. 
Missy, chile, deys a worsh-pot o’ gole bay’d 
unner dat swee’gum down in de hawse lot — jes 
t’ de lef’ o’ de swee’gum. I lays Missy’s a 
rich ’om’n yit,” he cackled gleefully. 

“Robert said — ” 

“Yessum, I knows he say hit aint dar, cos 
dem blue coats an’ gray coats all hunt f’ dat 
pot o’ gole endurin’ de wah.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


147 


“Daddy, Robert told me to tell you — “ 

“Dullaw ! Missy, I knows ’bout dat money, 
I does, honey-g’al, cos I hope Maws Joe ba’y 
hit myse’f. I tries an’ tries t’ study whar’s de 
place an’ dis mawnin’ Maws Joe an’ Maws 
Jam bofe tell me whar dat gole.” 

“Robert — ” 

“He, he, he! Skuzin’ yer copperosity. 
Missy, but Maws Rob’t don’t know a Gawd’s 
word ’bout dat pot o’ gole, Nome, cos Maws 
Rob’t ain’t no Taylor, honey. Nome, Maws 
Jam done git kilt’ ’n’ me and Maws Joe — 
yer riccerlic yer brer’ Joe, Missy? Naw, yer 
don’t, cos he die when yer was a teenchy li’l 
baby, lak li’l son*’’ 

“Robert said — ” 

“Dawda mussy, honey. Maws Rob’t don’t 
’long ’t dis fambly, an’ he jes dunno, dat’s a 
fac’, he jes dunno. Honey, when I fines dat 
money ! Um-um^um I won’t Missy strvit an’ 
look fine? I lay yer don’t hafter cook no mo’, 
chile.” 

“I wish you would find it, then. Daddy, 
listen.” 

“Yessum.” 

“Daddy, Robert says — ” 

“Es I was a noratin,’ Missy, when I fine’s 
dat gole, den I’m gwine ober Jerding. All 
whot keeps me out’n de Prommos’ Dan’ is dat 
money — unner dat swee’gum in de hawse lot. 


148 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


Yessum, when I gits dat money out’n dat pot 
f’ Missy, den I gwine ober Jerding t’ de Prom- 
mos Lan’, whar my folks is a wait’n f’ Daddy, 
an’-an’-” 

Again had kind nature transported Daddy 
to the land of dreams. 

Mrs. Royston still lingered, half hopeful, 
half dreading the ordeal. She stood looking 
upon the wrinkled, shrunken face, so placid 
now. 

“Daddy, poor old Daddy !” 

Again she called : 

“Daddy !’’ 

“ ’Pear lak you’s sorter onris’less, Missy,” 
he said, opening his eyes with a start. 

“Daddy, Robert says — ” 

“Yessum, so I heern’, but doe hits dar, all 
de same. I lay I fin’e hit, too. Hone3% dat 
gole in de shot bags what Maws Joe put hit in. 
De big worsh-pot ontop de li’l worsh-pot — done 
kivered hit bodaciously up. I gwine fine hit 
t’ night, chile, cos I gotty git ober Jerding dis 
week an’ ain’t got nair minute t’ was’e. When 
I ban’s dat gole money ober t’ you, den I puts 
out f’ de Prommos Lan’ ; dat’s whot I up ter, 
chile.” 

“I wish you would listen to me. Daddy.” 

“Yessum, Missy.” 

“Robert says — ” 

“Look out, dar ! See dat squorpin?” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


149 


Mrs. Royston did a very undignified thing 
in running half way up an old ladder which 
leaned against the cabin roof. 

“Es I was a zerbin,’ Missy, yer won’t 
hafter cook an’ warsh de deeshes no mo.’ 
When I fine’s dat gole, honey, dese white trash 
whot settled down on dishyer plantation whar 
high tone’ niggers used t’ be — I say. Missy, dat 
trash gwine be extonished, sho’s yer bawn. 
Huh ! he grunted, “I lay I tells Maws Jam the 
fus’ thing I tells atter I steps into de Prommos 
Lan’. I tells Maws Jam how proud Missy 
totin’ herse’f ’mongst de white trash on dis 
place. Jes yer wait, dawder, ’til Daddy git 
dat gole.” 

“I have heard of that pot of gold all my 
life. I wish we could find even ten dollars of 
it. Daddy. Listen. Robert said — ” 

“ ’Side de swee’gum, honey. Dadd}^’! git 
yer a basti’l full.” 

“You can’t dig. Your’e too old. Daddy.” 

“Who? Me? Dullawdamussy ! Honey, 
/ain’t so ole. I jes sorter tired-lak, dat’s all,” 
he cackled. 

“I must tell you what Robert — ” 

‘ I knows he say hit ain’t dar, but de naix 
time Maws Rob’t go t’ town I gwine dig un’ner 
dat swee’gum, I is. I lay I git dat money, too. 

“Robert is going to town this afternoon, 
he told me to tell you — ” 


150 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“I knows, Missy. Yer old Daddy know 
’zackly whot Maws Rob’t say. Yer g-’long-, 
now, hone, I cornin’ ’treckly. I spec’ li’l son 
need yer.” 

Mrs. Royston felt relieved from her un- 
pleasant errand, though could not for her life 
have told why. She came back to the house 
through the family burying ground back of the 
garden and soon stood between the graves of 
her parents. She was grieviously perplexed, 
feeling in a nameless way that she had been 
disloyal to the sacred trust reposed in her. 

To have obeyed her husband would have 
been a dereliction of duty towards her father. 
She came, as she had often come before, to 
confide her sorrows to the senseless marble 
covering her dead. 

There, indeed, comes a time in every life 
when in crucifixion of soul the cry for guidance, 
for sympathy, for what is most sorely needed, 
is wrung from unwilling lips. The response 
is swift and true. A feeling of sweet submis- 
sion fills the old rebellious spot in the soul and 
strength, God-given, comes. The horizon of 
thought widens and brightens, and the soul is 
stronger for these communings and travail, in 
which is blended neither credulity or imagina- 
tion, but God’s love, pure and simple. It is 
He who hears and responds. 

“Papa,” she whispered, her arms about 
the cold marble cross. “I can’t drive Daddy 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


151 


away — we would have suffered, mamma and I, 
but for Daddy — after you went — I can’t even 
tell Daddy to g-o — if we could but find that 
money — we could keep Daddy — and the dear 
old home — help me, papa!” she sobbed in grief’s 
unreason. 

She pressed her lips to the blessed name 
on the cross and, stronger in spirit, returned 
to the house. 

Though all unseen, a Listener heard, and 
as “a father pitieth his children,” the tender, 
comforting Love was hers. 

* * * * * * * 

Daddy Ben was true to his promise. No 
sooner had Mr. Royston ridden past the gin 
house on his way to town than Daddy’s cracked 
voice sounded in his favorite hymn in the back 
yard. 

“Whar now is good ole Danyel ? 

Safe, Lawd, in de Prommos Ivan’.” 

Nearer the quavering notes came : 

“Sister Mary’s a singin’ in de Prommos Ivan’, 

A crown on her head an’ a harp in han’, 

Safe, safe, Ivawd, in de Prommos Ivan’.” 

Mrs, Royston went to the hall door and 
saw Daddy laboriously dragging a pick and 
spade. He was as garrulous as was his habit, 
when Mrs. Royston and the baby accompanied 
him to the horse lot. 


152 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


After two hours’ hard, persistent work 
both were exhausted, and Mrs. Royston hope- 
less. 

“Nebber do t’ g-ib hit up. Missy. I gwine 
t’ keep on, cos de Ivawd done promised me de 
strenk t’ fine dat money ’n’ He nebber breaks 
a prommos, honey.” 

“Hits de root o’ dis swee’gum and dat 
mulb’ay what make de diggin’ so hard. Hits 
dar, doe, de big pot kiverin’ de li’l pot whot 
got de gole in hit. G’long t’ de house. Missy, 
yer ole Daddy gwine ’t git dem yaller boys ’fo 
he stop. I gotty hurry, too, cos I got a ’en- 
gagement in de Prommos Dan’ t’morrer an’ mus’ 
step ober Jerding twixt now an’ den. G’long, 
honey — stop. Missy, shake ban’s wid yer ole 
Daddy, cos yer see, chile, I mough’t git off 
’fo’ I see yer ergin.’ Gawd bress de gal an’ 
good luck t’ yer ! Ef yer got faif de size o’ a 
teenchy mustard seed, honey, dats plenty big. 
Bress Gawd, my faif in finin’ dat pot o’ gole f’ 
Missy is big as de gin-’ouse. G’long to de 
house. Good by, Missy, I be sho t’ tell Maws 
Jam ’n’ Maws Joe ’an’ ole Miss.” 

“I is dat,” he chuckled, when he had 
watched her out of sight. 

“She dunno I hyeard Maws Rob’t talkin’ 
’bout sen”n’ me t’ de po’ house long wid dem 
rambuntious white trash. Po’ li’l gal ! She 
try to tell Daddy, but I ain’t got de heart t’ 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


153 


let one o’ Maws Jam’s chill’en be so mottyfied 
an’ pestered — so I jes p’intly talk an’ g'ab an’ 
g’ab an’ talk so’s she got no chance to tell whot 
Maws Rob’t do say. I ain’t got no’ scasion to 
be staying’ ’roun’ here atter I fines dat money.” 

From the hole dug under the tree Daddy 
Ben scratched the loose earth with his knotted 
hands. He leaned far over, now and then using 
pick or spade. 

His slender strength was almost spent, and 
realizing this, he fervently though somewhat 
spasmodically prayed as he toiled. 

“Jes lemme, Lawd,” he panted. “Jes 
please sir, lemme fine dat big pot whot a kiv- 
erin’ de lil’ one whot’s got Missy’s money in it. 
Hit’s all f’ Missy, Lawd, cos when I gits dat 
gole f’ her I spec t’ step crost jerding. Lawd, 
jes please sir let dis dy ’um’le sarbent fine dat 
gole for Missy, Lawd, f’ Missy — please, sir.” 

* * * * * * * 

“I saw the keeper of the poor house to-day 
and a wagon will come for Daddy Ben in the 
morning,” Mr. Royston said at supper. 

“Very well.” 

“I hope,” Mr. Royston continued, when 
they were seated under the honeysuckles in the 
moonlight, “I hope the old man will get off 
quietly. You must not make a scene, Eva.” 

“I shall not,” she promised. 


154 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Don’t go to saying good bye and all 
that.’’ 

“No, I have said good bye to Daddy. I 
cannot account for the feeling, but I don’t be- 
lieve Daddy will ever go to the poor house.” 

“Did he say as much to you?” 

“No, indeed, Robert. I just feel that he 
will not go.” 

***** * * 

The poor house wagon arrived promptly at 
nine the next morning, and anxious to have the 
unpleasantness over with, Mr. Royston drove 
with the keeper up into the Quarter street after 
Daddy Ben and his belongings. 

Though the cabin door stood invitingly 
open, there was no trace of the old man. He 
had certainly decamped, was the general opin- 
ion. The search was given up and the wagon 
sent away. 

“I thought you were going to make some 
flower beds for me,” Mrs. Royston said re- 
proachfully to her husband, as he settled him- 
self for a smoke. 

“I can’t find the spade anywhere.” 

Mrs. Royston smiled as yesterday’s delu- 
sion came back to her. 

“I wonder where Daddy can be. He never 
visits.” 

“I prefer the spade to Daddy,” laughed 
her husband. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


155 


“I can find the spade, though I prefer to 
know of Daddy’s whereabouts. The spade is 
in the lot. Come with me, Robert. I have a 
confession to make.” 

“Are you not anxious about Daddy Ben? 
I feel wretchedly,” confessed Mr. Royston, as 
he opened the lot gate. 

“Not at all. Somehow — I cannot explain 
it, but I feel that all is well with dear old 
Daddy.” 

“I feel very uncomfortably, I must say,” 
as he closed the large, heavy gate. 

“Take son, please, I will get the spade,” 
and walking rapidly forward for a moment^ 
she suddenly stopped. 

“Oh, Robert!” she cried, “here’s poor old 
Daddy I” 

“Come quickly, Robert !” 

Beside the excavation which had cost him 
so dear, half covered by a great, rusted iron 
kettle, lay Daddy Ben. One of his twisted 
hands clutched a torn and mouldered shot-bag 
from which peeped and glittered the long hid- 
den treasure. 

Daddy Ben’s work “for Missy” was ac- 
complished. 

Below, one of his feet touched a huddled 
mass of treasure bags in a smaller iron vessel. 

“The old man is dead, Eva,” Mr. Royston 
whispered, awestricken. 

“Yes,” she answered in faith most holy,. 
“Daddy is ‘safe in the Prommos Lan’.” 


156 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


SISTER MACKEY'S PEELIN' S. 


[a I^KAF from VAI^IvOMBROSA.] 

J UST UP FROM the confused tang-le of 
bamboo and yellow jessamine vines on 
the creek, where tall, sturdy oaks had grown 
from saplings of twenty years ago — where the 
double log house, with its stick-and-dirt chim- 
neys at either end, its long gallery in front and 
a rail fence marking the boundary of the yard, 
lived Sister Mackey and her “feelin’s.” A red 
rooster flaunted his glistening plumage up and 
down the sunny gallery and a hen clucked coax- 
ingly to her brood of sons and daughters near 
the kitchen door. A spinning wheel stood un- 
banded on the gallery and the log walls were 
adorned by saddles, bridles and plow-gear 
hanging on nails. Just outside the gate stood 
a wagon, its pole resting on the fence and near 
it stood two pre-historic mules stretching their 
gaunt necks to nibble the new blooms of the 
dogwood saplings. A smart little bantam 
crowed a hilarious appreciation of his content 
from the ash hopper in the front yard. 

“Shoo !” cried Sister Mackey, waving her 
broom. “It jes nachelly hurts my feelin’s t’ 
see that little rooster make sich a fool o’ his- 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


157 


se’f an’ him sich a mite.” That Sister Mackey 
had the only feelin’s in all Canaan the neig'h- 
bors were well aware ; while she could speak 
and act with impunity, without fear or hinder- 
ance, the neig’hbors must needs be careful for 
Sister Mackey had copyrig-hted all the “feel- 
in’s” in Canaan and held fee simple deeds to 
every conscience, except one for herself, in a 
radius of twenty miles — from Holly Springs 
in Dallas county to Camden in Ouachita. 

From her half-way vantag'e g’round she 
“kept up” with the private affairs of every 
resident on the big* road ; all of whom had suf- 
fered and trembled from Sister Mackey’s ex- 
traordinary criticisms and hard judgements. 

Sister Mackey had a weak back and a 
rheumatic imag-ination. She reveled on a watch 
tower of observation for evil and found ruin 
running rampant when no one else dreamed of 
its shadow. The sole daughter of the log 
house of Mackey was “Sissy” — a pretty, dark- 
eyed girl of seventeen, who enjoyed life with 
the exuberance of youth in spite of her mother’s 
Argus eye. Dick and Bill, her big, over- 
grown brothers, were her most loyal knights, 
and often stood between Sissy and their 
mother’s ever present “feelin’s.” Like all 
young people, they were fond of fun and frolic 
and needed some outlet for their superabundant 
vitality, and when their buoyancy of spirit 


158 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


fairly bubbled over, Sister Mackey’s unhealthy 
imagination saw wreck and ruin in every es- 
capade. She was a Casandra crying out 
against the world, the flesh and the devil, a 
Sisyphus, forever rolling the rock of propriety 
up the hill of impossibility. 

If her children deceived her it was because, 
from pure contrariness, she denied them every 
pleasure she thought they would enjoy, so, 
when Dick came in that April morning with 
the information that a “fishfry” was to be on 
the creek the next day, his mother exclaimed : 
“I’ve been expectin’ jes sich. Soon’s I seed 
them ar dawg wood blossoms out thar in the 
road, says I to myse’f, ‘now them fool chill’n 
o’ mine ’ll want t’ quit work short off an’ go a 
gallivantin’ off a fishin’.’ Want t’ go fishin’, 
Dick ?” 

“Nome,” Dick promptly responded from 
the well where he was watering the calves. 
“Wouldn’t be catched thar.” 

“Me nuther,” Sissy declared from the 
kitchen window. 

“Got yer cawn all planted, Dick?” 

“Yes’m, me an’ Bill got thru this mawin’.” 

“Whar’s Bill ?” 

“Gone t’ the bottom t’ feed the hawgs.” 

“Whar’s Pap?” 

“Dunnome.” 

“Well, I’m gwine t’ that thar fishfry t’mor- 
rer an’ yers all gwine too,” Sister Mackey de- 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


159 


dared, settling- her spectacles on her high nose. 

“Oh, no. Maw, le’s don’t !’’ Sissy begged, 
winking at Dick. “I wouldn’t go f’ a gold 
nigger.’’ 

“Good greshus. Maw!’’ Bill said, as he 
rode past the house to the well. “What yer 
want t’ drag us off t’ that thar fishfry fer? 
Hits the ongodlyes’ place on top side o’ groun ;’ 
a fishfry’s turryble.” 

“All the same,’’ Sister Mackey said, with 
fire in her eye, “yer alls gwine !’ I’ll go over 
t’ the crib an’ see if I caint git some aigs t’ 
make some sweet cakes out’n.” 

She caught a big sun-bonnet from a nail 
and sauntered across the road to the corn crib. 
She had just crawled through the lot bars 
when Sissy sang out : “Glory 1 Swing yer 
pardners?” “Shet up. Sissy, hits a plum sin 
t’ do po’ Maw this way,” soft-hearted Dick 
said, imploringly. “No sich ov a thing ! Hits 
a sin the way she do us. Swing, Sissy I” 

Bill whistled “Chicken in the bread-tray” 
and Siss}^ executed a double shuffle, waving a 
dish-rag and calling the “figgers.” She then 
“swung” Bill, Dick and the dish-pan in quick 
succession. 

“Hello!” 

At the little square window in the end of 
the log kitchen, appeared a weazened, red face, 
smiling a good-natured approval on the antics 


160 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


of his big" boys and the lig'ht of his eye, Sissy. 

“Pap,” she whispered, “Go ’rouu’ an" 
watch f’ us, we’re jes bustin’ t’ dance. Don’t 
yer ferg-it t’ sneeze. Pap, don't ferg’it.” 

“Be keerful, honey, be keerful, don’t hurt 
Maw’s feelin’s,” whispered the old man. 

“When I g’it married,” said Bill, “I’m a 
gwine to find a gal ’thout feelin’s ; doggone 
feelin’s.” With this he seized a chair and 
pranced toward the door, addressing it as “Miss 
Becky.” The tins on the shelf rattled and 
jingled and the dishes on the table were in a 
jolly shake as if enjoying the stolen fun. Dick 
whistled “Money Musk,” forgetting in the in- 
spiration of the moment his loyalty to “Maw” 
and Sissey capered and bounced, while Bill and 
“Miss Becky” ran riot in tip-toe-lady. 

“Ah-choo! Ah-^:/^6)6>-oo/” came warningly 
from the inner room. 

In a trice Dick had leaped from the back 
door and Bill went whistling to the well. Sissy 
quietly, if hastily, put things to rights in the 
kitchen, and when Sister Mackey came in, each 
were innocently quiet. 

“Thar’s gwine t’ be a fishfry. Pap, is yer 
gwine?” his wife inquired, seating herself with 
a grunt. 

“Dunno, bleive I druther not,” he replied, 
crowding a wad of tobacco into his mouth. 

“I done got these aigs, yer gotter go now 
— oh, Dawd ! my back’s a killin’ me ! Is yer 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


161 


forgot how cake looks, Pap? Sweet cakes?” 

“I druther have ’taters an’ greens es sweet 
cakes,” said the old man, looking furtively be- 
yond the wife of his bosom — away off into the 
green depths of the forest. 

“All the same, yer’ll eat sweet cakes ! I 
’low t’ show Tildy Amos an’ Sister Beard es 
how I aint ferget how t’ cook ’f I does live 
’mongst wile cats an’ panters. Git the basket. 
Pap.” 

The old man arose from his seat and 
walked briskly into the house. He was a pic- 
turesque figure. His gray, home-spun trousers 
were made by “Sister Mackey’s busy fingers — 
“cut out,” she was wont to boast, by “the 
rack of the eye.” Though curtailed in length 
at the bottom, they were wide and broad and 
generously long above the waist and were 
hitched high over his chest, within an inch or 
two of his whiskers. In the back his broad 
shirt collar touched the “gallus” buttons on 
his shoulders. 

Pap’s appearance gave one an uneasy sen- 
sation — an apprehension of a possible weakness 
somewhere in his harness. 

“Look at Pap,” Sissy whispered to Dick 
who now sat on the kitchen table. “He looks 
like he was a tryin’ t’ pace an’ the hobble was 
too tight.” 


11 


162 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


The next day dawned beautifully clear, and 
Sister Mackey donned a new calico dress, a big* 
white apron and sun-bonnet, in honor of the 
occasion. She had stood some time before the 
little square mirror arrang-ing* her hair with 
more than usual care. A sad, dissatisfied ex- 
pression upon her sour old face plainly ex- 
pressed her thoughts. 

“I look and look and find my cheeks so lean, 

And hollow eyes in wrinkled brow doth shroud, 

As thoug-h two stars were creeping under clouds.” 

In due time the family, with Sister Mack- 
ey in the lead, were on the picnic grounds. 

“Look at Pap!” Sissy cried to Dick, “he’s 
hitched up tighter’n ever. Pap walks jes like 
a dawg in oats. See how high he steps?” A 
loud, uproarous laugh was the response. 

“No wonder. Pap’s hitched up f’ the fish- 
fry,” Bill added. 

“What in this worl’ ails them fool chillin? 
What yer laughin’ at, Dick? Oh, my po’ back! 
I caint stir a step ’thout some o’ my own flesh 
an’ blood turnin’ agin me an’ a hurtin’ my 
feelin’s. Chill’n aint like they used t’ be, no 
how; in ole times chill’n was she 

snapped, walking on. 

“Maw looks plum like a tuckey hen a 
huntin’ f’ a nes’ ” was Sissy’s next criticism. 
Bill joined Dick’s laugh and Sister Mackey 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


163 


turned about and demanded the cause of their 
mirth. 

“I was jes a laughin’ ’t Sissy, a devilin’ 
her about possum-jawed Pete Haley,” Dick 
explained. 

“Lawd, what a liar Dick Mackey air! Ah, 
my po’ back’ll kill me yit,” groaned Sister 
Mackey. 

“We wasn’t studyin’ yer feelin’s. Maw, 
honest, we wasn’t,” Bill assured the angry 
woman. 

“ ’Tain’t nobody studyin’ feelin’s ’ceptin’ 
Maw,” Dick laughed teasingly. 

“Yer walkin’ right over my feelin’s now.” 

Yea, verily ! Sister Mackey’s feelin’s were 
scattered everywhere — over the fresh green of 
the grass and the blue of the sweet wood- 
violets. Even the brightness of that change- 
ful April sky was veiled by a misty conscious- 
ness of apprehension, a vague fear of a shower 
of reproaches or rain. 

Sister Mackey’s name is legion ; we have 
all met her and we all know the suspicion that 
poisons her life. Every virtue has its relative 
vice, and excessive uprightness of living often 
degenerates into Pharisaical hardness. Ego- 
tism is the Alpha and Omega of a Sister Mac- 
key, and her sense of justice grows into a lack 
of sympathy for human frailty. The young 
are gay of heart, bright of temper, merry of 


164 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


face, sweetly innocent, they neither see nor fear 
evil and Heaven smiles upon them. 

We have all noticed, too, that envy, that 
invariable characteristic of a small mind, occu- 
pies a front seat in Sister Mackey’s soul. 
True nobility and fine generosity feels no pang 
when another succeeds where other efforts, as 
strong, have failed. Sister Mackey’s trail up 
the hill of Difficulty was blocked by great 
boulders of outraged and trampled “feelin’s” 
— ever}" rose held thorns to wound and every 
wind brought a fresh insult. To her the 
swiftly-flowing creek held snakes instead of 
fishes — snakes put there especially to bite and 
kill her. 

Selfish, suspicious, envious, malicious Sis- 
ter Mackey ! Alas, that you are so numerous. 

“Dick Mackey, you’re walkin’ smack, dab 
on my feelin’s!” Sister Mackey whined. 

With a quick movement, Dick swung him- 
self into a low growing oak, and, with a com- 
ical expression, asked : 

“Whar is they. Maw?” 

“Git out’n that tree, Richard Jeremiah! 
Willyam, git Richard Jeremiah out’n that 
scrub oak, and I’ll wipe up Canaan with him,” 
she cried, excitedly. 

“If yer have picked up them feelin’s what 
yer had scatterin’ ’round everywhere. I’ll git 
down.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


165 


“Git out’n that thar tree!” 

“I be sho to step on yer feelin’s if I do — is 
yer picked ’em all up, Sissy?” he called from a 
hig-h limb. 

“Stay thar, then,” and Sister Mackey left 
in disgust. 

“Yonners Miss Ivins an’ Miss Amos, Maw,” 
Sissy said, pointing to a group of women, ba- 
bies and dogs under a clump of trees near the 
creek. 

“Well ! I do know in my time if thar ain’t 
Sister Beard an'" Sister Broadnax an'' Sister 
Mackey! What did you come here for. Sister 
Mackey — you ole Georgy grunter!” Sister Ev- 
ans cried, advancing and offering her hand. 

“Jes t’ devil Sister Ivins,” Sister Mackey 
replied, in high good humor. 

“Umk!” grunted Sister Amos. 

Sister Beard smiled. 

“Umk! Umk! 

“What’s the matter, Tildy?” 

“Sister Mackey’s plum frisky to-day, won- 
der what’s up? Hope she left her feelin’s and 
back-ache at home.” 

“Law, Tildy, how you do run on! You’re 
young yit, honey. Jes let Sister Mackey do 
the talkin’ an’ she’s all right — she’ll fergit 
she’s got feelin’s.” . 

“I know,” laughed Sister Amos. “Jes 
let her wonder back t’ Georgy an’ she’s all 
ight.” 


166 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


“That’s all — an’ it don’t hurt us to listen 
yer know. The Bible says, ‘A merry heart 
does ’bout as much good’s medicine’ you know, 
Tildy, honey.” 

“Y-e-s-’m,” Sister Amos slowly agreed, 
for her gospel lights were exceedingly hazy. 

Sister Mackey was now settled in the 
midst of her neighbors, while the young people 
fished and flirted lower down the creek. 

“How’s Sandy’s foot, Sister Brodnax? 
Didn’t he git his foot mashed on a lawg? 
When I heerd ’bout it, I got to studyin’ ’bout 
ole Tom Akers, back in Georgy.” Sister 
Mackey paused to light her pipe. 

“She’s off,” Sister Amos whispered. 

“Give her a push,” said Sister Evans 
softly. 

“Sandy’s foot is almost well, he is down 
on the creek fishing. What is it you began to 
tell. Sister Mackey?” Sister Brodnax asked 
when she had found her knitting. 

“Tom Akers, as big a rarin’, tarin’, dar’- 
devil as ever crost water.” 

“She’s across the Georgy line,” whispered 
Sister Amos and sighs of relief went around. 

“Tom Akers wa’nt no ’count on top o’ 
dirt ; he’d go t’ meetin’ an’ git up an’ talk an’ 
say, ‘Breetherin,’ I’m a po, worm o’ the dust, 
I aint fit t’ live,’ an’ it’s the unly time he was 
ever knowd t’ tell the straight, hones’ truth 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


167 


was when he said his say in meetin.’ An’ 
mor’n that he was the ongodlyes’ lookin’ feller 
/ever sot eyes on.” 

“How did he look ?” 

“Like the devil ’fo’ day ; his e3^es was the 
crostest that ever looked into a jug. Lindy, 
his wife, was a pow’ful fine woman, though, an’ 
folks did wonder what she had Tom for. She 
hurt my feelin’s mighty bad when she tuk him, 
for me an’ Lindy was gals together, an’ I 
thought a power o’ Lindy, po’ gal.” 

The vile little pipe needed attention, and 
Sister Amos improved the opportunity. “Why, 
Sister Mackey ! Was you jealous?” 

Sister Mackey ignored the remark and 
calmly continued. 

“Yes, we was gals together an’ neighbors, 
too. My pap’s tater patch jined her dad’s 
cawn fiel’; we was closte neighbors, me an’ 
Lindy was — an’ when she whirls in an’ ups 
an’ ma’yrs Tom Akers they settled down to 
housekeepin’ in a cabin in her dad’s Ian’. 
Tom was worser cocked-eyed than ever when 
Lindy’s dad made him go t’ work. Hits curis 
how so many nice, good women do git sich 
ornary men. I’ve thought a heap ’bout that. 
Just look at me an’ Pap !” 

“So’ve I,” said Sister Amos. 

“Women’s curis critters, anyhow. Sister 
Evans remarked, smiling at Sister Brodnax. 


168 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“A woman,” said Sister Brodnax, ear- 
nestly, “understands only what she feels, and 
a man sees things as they really are, remaining 
the while indifferent to their relation to anyone 
except himself.” 

“But women is sich fools. Sister Brodnax.” 

“Ah, no; we have only to look into the 
heart of a true woman to see there an impulse 
as strong as life, as lasting as eternity, to look 
up to, even to adore and follow the man she 
loves, because. Sister Mackey, God made wo- 
man a compassionate, forbearing, loving crea- 
ture.” 

“That sounds mighty sweet — most like 
preachin’,” Sister Beard said, smiling. 

“Hit is preachin’, but I don’t ’zactly see 
the pint yit,” Sister Mackey said, doubtfully. 

“You see,” began Sister Brodnax, “women 
believe more, endure more, hope more and love 
more than men. I’m glad God made us so.” 

“I ain’t. Why don’t women have mo' 
sense?" Sister Mackey demanded, savagely. 

“’Cause they ain’t built that way,” Sister 
Amos laughed. “But what become o’ Tom 
What-you-call him?” 

“Tom Akers? Lindy she may’s Tom, and 
they got along tollerble well ’til Lindy tuck 
sick, an’ then things went sorter bad ; in fact, 
everything was whopper-jawed after Lindy 
tuck her bed. One day I went down thar t’ 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


169 


see ’bout how Lindy was a gittin’, an’ I tuck a 
pitcher o’ merlasses with me f’ her. I didn’t 
take but a few, but they was mighty good mer- 
lasses, an’ when I gits t’ the gate I sees the ole 
cow a lowin’ at the bars, an’ inside the lot the 
ca’fe was a bellerin’ fit t’ bust. I thought hit 
curis that Tom didn’t milk that cow an’ hit 
mighty nigh nine o’clock. Hit nachelly hurt 
my feelin’s t’ see things a goin’ so awful whop- 
per-jawed. Well, I went on in, an’ behole an’ 
lo! thar lay po’ Lindy daid — jes as daid as ever 
a body got.” 

“What a pity,” sighed Sister Beard. 

“Umk! Uni, Um — ” from Sister Amos. 

“Bes’ thing she could a did.” 

“Whar’s Tom Akers all that time?” 

“I hyerd a pow’ful takin on an’ behole! I 
finds Tom in the shed with his foot mighty 
nigh cut oflF, an’ mos’ bled t’ death. Then I 
see Miss Parris a cornin’ an’ I got her t’ send 
her boy after mo’ folks. 

“Lawd! I never see sich times ’fo’ ner 
since.” 

“Did Tom die?” 

“N-a-w! Nothin’ couldn’t kill as no ’count 
a dawg’s Tom Akers. In six month’s time he 
was over a courtin’ me — sich a po’, onary 
dawg’s Tom Akers wasn’t wuth killin’.” 

“Why didn’t you take him. Sister Mack- 
ey?” 


170 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Didn’t want him, Tildy, I’d drutlier have 
Pap. I always liked Pap when we was kids ; 
he was a g-ood lookin’ feller when he was on 
his fust legs — Pap was— jes like my Bill. I 
think Bill’s a purty boy.” 

“Sister Amos laughed outright, the oth- 
ers glanced at Bill as he sat fishing, his long 
legs hanging over a cypress log in mid-stream 
and his feet projecting like wooden frames on 
which hung his great shoes. Sissy called 
them “fiddle boxes.” Bill’s straight, red hair 
hung behind a pair of ears that would have 
made a donkey die of unadulterated envy. 
Surmounting all, like a helmet with razed 
vizor, was his big straw hat-brim turned up 
against the crown with reckless disregard of 
wind and weather. All the iron in Bill’s blood 
shone in big freckles on his hands and face — 
like smouldering camp-fires on a prairie. 

Only mother-love could see beauty in that 
freckled, good-natured face. 

“Thar’s Dick Amos — wonder what he 
wants,” Sister Mackey said as that person ap- 
peared. 

Dick Amos smiled down from his six-feet- 
four altitude upon them — stooped and patted 
his wife’s headland smiled again. 

“If you all want t’ see a purty man, jes 
looky here!” Sister Amos said proudly, as she 
arose and stood beside her husband. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


171 


Dick Amos seemed a giant beside the little 
blonde who smiled into his brown eyes. So 
strong in heart and body. 

“Whose armor is his honest thought; 

Whose conscience is his strong retreat; 

Who having nothing — yet hath all.” 

All of Ouachita county, Arkansaw, held 
no happier man than “Tildy’s giant,” Dick 
Amos. 

“I jes nachelly b’lieve Tildy an’ Dick’s in 
love yit,” laughed Sister Evans. 

“Tildy aint got no sense, I aint s’prised,” 
Sister Mackey scornfully remarked. An’ 
they’ve been may’rd more’n ten year, aint it 
ten year, Tildy? Oh, my po’ back’s killin, me! 

It was a very unfashionable state of affairs 
in Canaan, Tildy knew, but that baptism of 
approving light from her giant’s brown eyes 
was dearer to her than a whole cotton crop — 
more rejuvenating than any fabled fountain of 
youth and beauty. The log house she and 
Dick called home was a palace of delight and 
luxury, and while Dick toiled in the fields 
Tildy kept the house and yard tidy and 
thought of how pleased he would be to rest in 
the morning-glory J 30 wer on the litttle kitchen 
porch. 

“Why, Sister' Mackey ! Don’t you love 
the Squire?” 

“Hits this way, Tildy.. I’ve lived with 
Pap so long, I’m tcsed t’ him an’ I wouldn’t 


172 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


swap Pap off for no man on top side of dirt ; 
but I aint in love. I’ve g-ot mo’ sense than 
that, thank the good Lawd. Serrer Mackey 
ain’t no fool.” 

“Are the boys and girls catching any fish, 
Dick?” Sister Brodnax inquired. 

“Lots and lots of fish,” laughed Tildy’s 
giant as he strode away. 

“I measure my love to show you,” came in 
the melody of many voices from adown the 
creek. 

“Go forth and choose your lover” were the 
words the winds brought from the merry- 
makers to Sister Mackey’s antiquated ears. 

. “I must see ’bout Sissy,” she announced, 
putting away her knitting. 

“Now, Sister Mackey, let the chill’n alone 
— ef yer go leave us we’ll all g’ long home,” 
Sister Evans declared. 

“Woosh I may drap dead if /don’t.” 

“Hope I may never stir if / don’t.” 

Sister Mackey had risen, but paused at 
these protestations. 

“You wouldn’t spile the whole of this 
purty day f’ us, would you. Sister Mackey?” 
Sister Beard said, half reprq^chfully. 

“I’d druther t’ listen to Sister Mackey 
norate ’bout Georgy es to eat sweet-cakes!” 
Sister Evans said, plaintively, “an’ to think 
she won’t talk sho gits away with me.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


173 


“When I see ’bout Sissy — ” 

“Oh, let the chill’n ’lone, they’re havin’ a 
orful good time ; all of ’em been a drappin’ 
cawn ever since the overflow — let ’em alone,” 
pleaded Sister Amos. 

“Well, I’ll let ’em ’lone, then,” she at last 
decided. 

“Oh, Lawd ; my po’ back’s killin’ me daid. 
Whar’ll I sot?” 

“Yes,” spoke Sister Brodnax, “let the 
children alone in their innocent gaiety, for the 
time may come when every leaf-whisper will 
seem a sigh — every wind now so life-giving 
will some day carry on its wings echoes of sobs 
and cries of breaking hearts. Sit here. Sister 
Mackey, and recall your own days of youth and 
pleasure.” 

“You’ve hurt my feelin’s ergin! Oh, my 
po’ ole back’s a killin’ me!” 

“Git her inter Georgy — quick!” and Sister 
Amos was soon listening to another old-time 
story and to the gay melodies adown the creek. 


174 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


^UlEN SABEf 


I^BAVKS FROM VAIyl^OMBROSA. 

T^ID you come to a satisfactory conclusion 
LI/ concerning" your investig'ations?” asked 
my friend Dolores, who had been dipping* into 
occult sciences. 

“I gave it up quite a while ago.” 

“Unconvinced?” 

“Oh, I am convinced that there was a deal 
of deception practiced, at the same time there 
was much that was not deception ; but where 
the unreal left off and the real began, I never 
knew. What do you think of it?” ^ 

“I do not know; indeed, I scarcely dare 
call my vain imagining thoughts.” 

We were silent for a season. Dolores took 
a book from the table and I made button holes 
in the baby’s aprons. 

Except in her quiet presence no one could 
calculate the stimulating force of her person- 
ality ; one did as Dolores willed, did her un- 
spoken will involuntarily. I glanced across the 
table. She was not reading, nor was she rest- 
less, for Dolores scorned the existence of 


nerves. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


)75 


“What is it, Dolores?” 

“There is a woman down town who pro- 
fesses to make photographs — ” 

“Most photographers do,” I laughed. 

“Photographs of whatever face you have 
in your ‘mind’s eye’ at the moment of sitting.” 

“Of course you believe all that, Dolores?” 
I asked, mockingly. 

“lam not quite sure of anything. ‘Noth- 
ing is so falacious as facts,’ you know.” 

“Let us try this wonderful woman,” I 
proposed, knowing full well the experiment 
would be made sooner or later. 

“When?” 

“Now !” I declared. 

“Do you really mean it?” she asked, wist- 
fully. 

“Of course I do.” 

“When?” she asked again. 

“Now, Dolores,” I repeated. 

“I don’t know,” she said, reflectively. 

“Why?” 

“You will not make a joke of our going, 
and laugh at me?” 

“I promise not to laugh.” 

In half an hour Dolores was seated by my 
side in the photographic reception room. 

“I wonder how she looks? Some ‘airy 
fairy Lillian,’ I dare say,” thinking of the 
photographer. 


176 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


As I finished speaking- a stout, pleasant- 
faced woman entered the room. 

“You are Madame Z , who takes — 

Dolores paused in embarrassment. 

“Spirit photographs, yes;” she answered 
pleasantly, adding, “are you a believer?” 

“I am waiting to be made one,” Dolores 
quietly returned. 

“Do I understand aright? You make a 
picture of a dead -and-gone-f ace?” I inquired, 
looking at Dolores and wishing myself at home. 

“I understand it this way,” Dolores, divin- 
ing my thoughts, hastened to explain: “You 
fix your mind upon a loved and lost one, ‘think 
hard,’ as the children say, of some particular 
face and, 'presto., you have his or her picture.” 

“Exactly,” Madame declared. 

“ ‘You fix your mind upon a loved and lost 
one,’ so far so good. You positively make a 
portrait of a face you never knew, of a person — ” 

“As easily as I make one of your living 
face, provided you obey instructions,” Madame 
assured me. 

“And the face is positively present?” 

“Positively present!” She arose and seated 
herself near me. 

“My dear lady,” she began earnestly, “the 
spirit untrammeled by mortality transports 
itself from one place to another with a rapid- 
ity more wonderful than light or electricity. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


177 


These are soul-bonds, not of earth, spirit 
speaks to spirit, never questioning, never doubt- 
ing, and these spirit-bonds are never broken. 
There are subtle, mysterious communications 
between souls — from soul to soul — for indefini- 
tude knows no distance, no space.” 

“ ‘ Where human hearts grow truly wise, 

Where gliding spirits feed the mind 
With truth,’ ” 

Dolores softly quoted, her sweet face alight 
with emotion. 

“Ah,” Madame sighed, “we make too 
much of the supernatural, of dying, when ’tis 
nothing to cross the Darien of Death, only a 
step, so to speak. We are born into celestial 
life very much as we are ushered into this 
world, except the soul is more alive, more 
awake in eternity. We fall asleep here, we 
awaken there.” 

“Yes,” Dolores said, almost reverently : 

“ ‘ A land wherein the woeful word 
That blinds the thought is never heard ; 

But soul with soul holds converse sweet 
In language soundless, full, complete.’ ” 

“When we came into this world,” con- 
tinued Dolores, “ we found ourselves in careful, 
loving hands. A God who provided for us 
here will surely not leave us without a loving 
home-coming there.” 


12 


178 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“When we awaken from a beautiful 
dream,” Madame said, smilingly, as she laid 
her hand on Dolores’ arm, “our eyes close 
again, and we yield ourselves to its pleasant- 
ness, broken links of consciousness gradually 
reunite and reality, panorama-like, unfolds it- 
self and we return to the semi-consciousness of 
absolute rest. Again we open our eyes, collect 
our scattered thought, thus realizing a full 
consciousness of a new day. This is death.” 

“I can not understand your theory, beauti- 
ful though it is. Can you not make it plainer 
still ? Do not, I beg of you, give me a meta- 
physical answer like a Socrates, nor like a 
theologian puzzle me with a dogmatic explana- 
tion. I attach no value to facts which have not 
been verified by actual experience. Pardon my 
candor,” I pleaded. 

“Then, my dear lady, I shall say no more 
on this subject, for having never died, I have 
no ‘actual experience.’ You want spirit pic- 
tures?” 

“Whether your doubts will be more clearly 
developed or entirely swept away,” Madame 
said to Dolores, as she led the way, “depends 
upon yourselves. I am only an instrument in 
your hands, so to speak. If you will give the 
subject your undivided attention for a few sec- 
onds the result, I promise you, will not be a 
disappointment. Sit or stand here,” she di- 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


179 


rected Dolores. “Fix your mind, your tbought- 
power, upon the person you desire photo- 
graphed. Upon the strength of thought- 
power depends success. I am only an instru- 
ment, as I before stated. Are you ready?” 

Dolores sat gazing into vacancy. She was 
pale but steady. 

“ That will do.” 

Dolores arose and started towards me. I 
caught her in time to save her a fall ; for the 
first time in her life she had fainted. A queer, 
uncanny feeling came over me as I bathed her 
face. She soon recovered and asked vaguely : 

“Am I dead?” 

“Oh, no! only a little bewildered,” I said 
with much bravado, for I knew that my time 
came next. 

“Can I see my picture ?” Dolores asked, 
anxiously, sitting erect and holding to my 
hand. 

“You can see the negative and be con- 
vinced,” Madame said pleasantly. 

“I certainly shall be converted if it depicts 
the object of my thoughts.” Dolores shivered 
and drew nearer to me. 

“Look and be satisfied.” Madame ex- 
tended her hand. 

With hungry eagerness Dolores took the 
plate and gazed rapturously upon it. A deeper 
palor overspread her face, and tears ran down 
her cheeks. 


180 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Is the picture satisfactory?” Madame 
anxiously inquired. 

“Perfectly so, thank you.” 

“Are you quite sure ? ” 

“Quite sure.” 

Turning- to me Dolores shaded the plate, 
and said choking-ly, “See ! ” 

Yes ; I saw a very correct neg-ativelif Dolo- 
res’ strong-, fine face, and at her back, leaning- 
a little forward, was a clearly-defined picture 
of a soldier with a superb figure, a handsome, 
smiling face. 

Dolores’ eyes still devoured the portrait 
before her. 

“He looks too young,” she said at last, 
“he was several years older than I,” still gaz- 
ing on the well remembered face of long ago. 

“Died young,” Madame ventured. 

“He fell at Getty surg — so long ago,” 
Dolores sobbed. 

“The soul has no age, my dear lady” 
Madame began ; “the soul knows no age. As 
centuries upon centuries roll on in everlasting 
succession, the soul feels no trace of years, no 
change. Suns have no night ; death no place. 
Truth and goodness and beauty are co-eternal. 
Time exists only for material objects in a ma- 
terial world.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


181 


Again a cold blast seemed to sweep over 
me when I took the chair. I thought of all 
the ghost stories I had ever heard or read. 

“Fix your mind absolutely, profoundly 
upon the face of some dead relative or friend. 
You must be serious or we shall fail,” Madame 
said, warningly. 

“I feel — scared !” I confessed sheepishly, 
half arising. 

“Not a week ago,” Dolores said, hastening 
to my side, “I heard you say you would give 
ten years of life for one glimpse of your 
mother’s face.” 

“So I would, Dolores. I would never feel 
afraid of mamma.” 

“Think of her then; think of her abso- 
lutely,” Madame urged. 

I sat still and gave my mind thoroughly to 
hard thinking, though a regret floated through 
m}^ brain. A regret that I had undertaken 
such sacrilegious folly ; but, having gone so 
far, I would not recant. 

I intently and lovingly thought of the 
sweet, fair face of my mother, so long ago cov- 
ered in the dust of the grave, fixed my mind 
entirely and profoundly upon her as I saw her 
last. I can not lucidly describe my feelings, 
except that a pleasant expectancy took posses- 
sion of me, and I felt as if I had only to put 


182 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


out my hand to touch her, so tangible did her 
presence seem. 

“Are you ready ? ” 

How long a time elapsed before I uttered 
the word I can not say. The pleasant, peace- 
ful feeling swept into oblivion all note of time. 

“She is coming,” Dolores whispered. 

“Here is your picture, ‘oh, ye of little 
faith ! ”’ Madame laughed. 

I saw a negative of my own face, and close 
beside it was the beautiful, life-like face of my 
mother smiling into mine. 

“Your mother,” Dolores said, confidently. 

“Yes, this is undeniably my mother’s face, 
Dolores, but — ” 

“Hush! hush! Your distortion of truth is 
a new faculty. Don’t cultivate it. Stick to 
your life-long habit of making the best of every 
one and of accepting truth without question or 
suspicion. ” Dolores caught my hands and went 
on excitedly : 

“Shaded by a background of suspicion and 
doubt, that which is innocent amusement can 
be distorted into mortal temptation, that which 
might have proven a step into a higher sphere, 
becomes a plunge into chaotic discontent. 
Doubt is deadly poison to faith, and a little 
leaven leaveneth the whole.” 

“I do not comprehend,” I insisted. “lean 
not, do you?” I appealed to Madame. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


183 


“Easily enoug-h,” she laughed, “easily 
enough. Your soul cried out for your mother. 
Her response was instantaneous. Was a 
mother’s ears ever shut against her child?’’ 

“I admit that this is her face, but how did 
it come about ? How did mamma — ?” 

“My dear lady, I can but repeat that I 
have never died, therefore, have no ‘actual ex- 
perience.’ The facts are before you. Be con- 
tent and grateful. You are as wise as I.” 



184 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


THAT DAT A7 SISTER BROADNAXES. 



HEY SAY,” Sister Mackey observed, 


1 when she had lig’hted her pipe; “they 
say that Mis’ Key’s g’ot five hundred young* 
chickens, and nair chicken’s g*ot a mammy.” 

“Shucks ! ” ejaculated Sister Amos. 

“I wonder!” Sister Broadnax mildly ex- 
claimed. 

“That aint a patchin’,” Sister Mackey 
went on with a sickly, indefinite g'rin ; “thar’s 
ducks an’ g-awslin’s an’ turkeys, too, til yer 
can’t say hush, «an’ nair mammy ’mong-st ’em.” 

“Tellin’ riddles. Sister Mackey, er jes 
plain, straig*ht stories?” Sister Amos asked. 

“’Taint nair riddle ner lie nuther. Hit’s 
ther fac." 

“Soun’s powerful like,” laug-hed Sister 
Amos. 

“La, Tildy!” 

“Hit’s a pyor fac’ ; pap he seed ’em. And 
pap ’lowed it ’pear’d like the whole arth was 
alive with leetleyallar an’ black an’ white balls 
a rollin’ ’roun’.” 

“Gre’t King- David I ” 

Sister Broadnax left the room “to see 
about dinner,” and Sister Evans leaned on the 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


185 


quilting frames. Sister Amos sewed indus- 
triously upon the unfinished “ shell ” on Sister 
Mackey’s side of the quilt, while that tobacco- 
loving worm of the earth tilted her chair 
against the door facing and drew doubtful 
comfort from a vile little pipe. 

“I’ll bet,” she said, between puffs; “I’ll 
bet a mule ’taint nair one in this house kin tell 
how Mis’ Key hatched them chickens an’ gaws- 
lin’s an’ ducks an’ turkey’s.” 

“Under a hen,” Sister Amos said, confi- 
dently. 

“Of course,” Sister Evans agreed. 

“’Taint so. Mis’ Key’s got a inker- 
buster ! ” 

“A what?” 

“I hope I may drap daid ef she ain’t got a 
inkerbuster,” Sister Mackey said with empha- 
sis. 

“Well,” Sister Amos declared, “that do 
sho get me! ” 

“Tell us all about it. Sister Mackey.” 

“All I know is that a inkerbuster hatches 
things same’s a pyor hen. Pap he seed ’em.” 

“Uaws-a-massy ! ” 

Sister Evans sat beside Sister Beard, and 
Sisters Broadnax and Amos were on the other 
side. 

“That’s all I know, what pap said ; pap’s 
a mighty han’ t’ tell yarns, an’ ef I fergit t’ 


186 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


check him up he tells powerful shaky war 
tales — tell ’em by the hour. But, a inker- 
buster ; well, that do take the rag* off’n th’ 
bush. Hit beats all the war bushwhackin’ 
tales pap ever told, an’ that’ sayin’ a heap, I 
can tell yer. Ready t’ roll that side? ” 

“Not yit,” Sister Beard replied. 

“Them jayhawker’s tales’s the big’gest / 
ever heerd ; but I seed somethin ’in town las’ 
week that beats that inkerbuster tale all hol- 
ler.’’ 

“What did yer see, Tildy?” 

“Thar’s pap ! ’’ interrupted Sister Mackey. 
“Ef yer wimmin want to’ see a sho nough 
man, jes yer look at pap.” 

Every one did look and each saw a weaz- 
ened, insignificant-looking specimen of a Ca- 
naanite, with scant, sandy hair sticking up on 
each side of his bald pate in a comical w^ay, add- 
ing to his face a chronic expression of appre- 
hension. His keen, gray eyes darted restlessly 
about with a hunted look as if something terri- 
ble might happen at any time. “Pap” had a 
heart for any fate. A small man with smaller 
qualifications, and still more minute was his 
courage ; for at times Sister Mackey’s w^rath 
was overwhelming and quite prodigious ; in- 
deed, sufficiently overpowering to keep several 
larger men than “pap” apprehensive. 

“What’s wantin’. Pap? What’s yer quit 
plowin’ an’ come over here fer? Say, Pap?” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


187 


Sister Mackey’s rasping voice yelled from the 
door. 

“Pap” coughed, wiped his face with his 
sleeve, and bolstering up his fast-waning cour- 
age, squeaked out, “Smoke’ouse key.” 

“Lawd-a-massy ! I ain’t got it, yes — no — 
yes, here it is in my pocket — I’ll be doggoned ! ” 

“Pap’s a sweet lookin’ cuss,” Sister Amos 
whispered when Sister Mackey walked to the 
gate to deliver the keys. 

“La, Tildy ! how you do run on ! ” 

“Got him well trained, no mistake ’bout 
that.” 

“Who’s well trained, Tildy?” Sister 
Mackey asked, looking over her spectacles and 
taking a seat. 

“ ’Square Mackey, for one,” well-knowing 
her desire to be considered the “best man of 
the two.” 

“Hit’s a pity Dick Amos ain’t es good.” 

“He’s better,” declared Sister Amos. 
“Ain’t he. Sister Broadnax?” 

“Dick suits you better,” Sister Broadnax 
replied with her usual policy. 

“Do yer recurlect, Tildy, how I squelched 
Dick that time yer was sick ? ” 

Sister Amos did not remember. 

“Well,” began Sister Mackey,” oncte when 
Tildy was orful sick, me an’ Sis Peters was 
thar, an’ we’s so plum’ flustrated ’bout Tildy 


188 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


that little Tommy fell out’n ther do’ ’fore we 
knowd it. Sis had milked the cows an’ turned 
’em out, an’ ’bout that time I called her an’ she 
clean fergot t’ put up ther bars, so the calves 
jes walked out an’ was a gwine t’ ther swamps 
with ther cows when Dick he come an’ drive’ m 
back. Dick he was sho mad, an’ when he come 
in the house, ’fore he axes ’bout Tildy, mind 
yer, he sees that bump on Tom’s haid. Well, 
sir, he was g'ood mad then, an’ axes ‘What’s 
ther matter with ther boy’s haid?’ ‘Dick,’ I 
says, sollem as a preacher. ‘Tildy she kicked 
Tom down ther steps.’ ‘What? Tildy cain’t 
move,’ says Dick. ‘Who turned them caives 
out?’ ‘Tildy turned them caives out jes f ’ pyor 
devilment, ’ I says es sollem as yer please. Dick 
Amos never said a word an’ just sot thar by 
Tildy an’ give medicin’ all night meeker’n ole 
Moses hisse’f. That’s ther way t’ manage a 
man, jes bluff ’em. Hit jes nachully takes a 
Georgy ’oman t’ do it, too,” Sister Mackey 
said, boastfully* 

“Ain’t yer skeered the Squar’ll get tired o’ 
iDein’ bluffed?” 

“Na-a-w,” Sister Mackey scornfully re- 
plied, “Pap ain’t got no spunk — nair speck, ef 
he ever did have a bit hit’s gone.” 

Innate refinement is not easily coarsened, 
and while intimate association with a fussy, 
fretful, coarse woman like Sister Mackey did 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


189 


not elevate her kind neighbors, it certainly did 
not drag them down into her commonplace 
strata ; nor could they hoist her into a higher 
sphere ; for, though vulgarity of birth may be 
modified, it can never be eradicated by associa- 
tion with education or refinement. 

“Do you call this ther Done Stair o’ 
Texas?” Sister Mackey asked when they had 
“rolled” the quilt on both sides. “I seed a 
pow’ful purty quilt up t’ Holly Springs, red 
an’ green, they called that ther Lone Stair o’ 
Texas, an’ yer bet hit was purty, too — jes one 
big stair in ther middle — ’pear like hit jest 
nachully growed plum out t’ thercawnders ’n’ 
aiges ; hit was a plum sight. Ther gals made 
kroshay trimmin’ and sewed hit on the aige. 
Lawd a massy! hit was a sight to see— so 
purty !” 

“I ain’t a studyin’ no quilts. I’m thinkin’ 
’bout that — that — what’s that new sort o’ hen 
that hatches so many chickens without aigs? 
What is it. Sister .Mackey?” Sister Amos 
asked. That ancient dame took her pipe from 
her lips and gazed in withering scorn upon Sis- 
ter Amos. 

“Tildy Amos ! Yer a mother of four chil- 
dren — three daid an’ Tom a livin,’an’ axin’ sich 
foollyfied questions ! I don’t see nothin’ t’ 
laugh at,” glancing around the room in re- 
proof. , 


190 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


Silence fell upon the little company. Each 
felt a va^ue dread of Sister Mackey’s reckless 
tongue, and as that accrimonious soul lighted 
her pipe anew each feared a revelation, and 
each mentally vowed to discourage all such 
communication as Sister’s Macke^^’s soul loved 
to impart. She resumed her chair near the 
door, gazing out on the fields beyond. That 
same sickly grin — the danger signal — gradually 
stole over her weather-beaten face — a smile of 
pain or pleasure, none could tell. For a mo- 
ment she held her nasty pipe at arm's length 
and turned her face towards her friends who 
were industriously quilting. “I heerd a lot 
mo’ ’bout that orful — ” 

“Gracious ! ’’ exclaimed Sister Evans. 

“Ivordy!’’ from Sister Amos. 

“What’s the matter ? Ef yer ain’t keerful 
yer will stick yerse’ves rale bad,?’ Sister Beard 
said. I thought you knew we were rolling this 
side. 

“Gracious goodness ! ’’ 

Sister Amos examined Sister Evans’ finger, 
whispering softly, “Better git her into Georgy, 
quick.’’ 

“Ef jes’ a-stickin’ yer finger hurts so bad, 
what yer ’spose a bone felon is? Sister Mackey, 
did you ever see a bone felon?’’ 

“Yes, I’ve seed many a one. I know’d ole 
Brother Bowers in Georgy ; he had two at 
onct.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


191 


“Safe,” whispered Sister Amos. 

“Yes, sir; Brother Bowers had a orful 
spell. He lived ’twix pap’s an’ the creek. My 
pappy was a pow’ful friendly man, so sociable- 
like, yer know. Well, pappy heerd ’bout 
Brother Bowerses bad luck, an’ he rid over to’ 
see ’bout it. Sister Bowers was a mighty still 
sort o’ ’oman, and Brother Bowers was jes’ 
the tother way ; but ever sence he’d got them 
fellums on hands Sister Bowers was a-gittin’ 
tollerble spunky an’ innerpen’ent.” 

The vague little grin grew sicker and 
more indefinite. 

“What did he do for it? ” Sister Broadnax 
inquired, anxiously hoping to keep her thoughts 
lingering in “Georgy.” 

“Well, it would be easier t’ tell what he 
didn’t do, fer ever’body what passed told him 
exactly how t’ kyor them fingers, an’ like a 
ole fool he tried ever’ blessed thing.” The grin 
spread into a smirk — then faded away to come 
back again most exasperatingly uncertain than 
before. “One mawnin’ pappy went by thar 
an’ ole Brother Bowers was a walkin’ ther 
yard a holdin’ up both them fullum fingers an’ 
a howlin’ an’ a cussin’.” 

“An’ him a church member an’ a per- 
fesser ? ” cried Sister Evans in amazement. 

“Huh ! Brother Bowers was a Metherdis ! 
They don’t mind a little cussin’ onct in a while 


192 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


— no mor’n a Baptis’ minds a little whisky B 
big- meetin’ times. Pappy he rid up to’ ther 
fence an’ hollered, but Brother Bowers jes’ 
kep’ on a cussin’ an’ a hollerin’ ’bout them fel- 
lums a-hurtin’, when one o’ them childurn — 
thar’s mor’n yer could count with a jog-raphy — 
run out t’ther fence an’ Brother Bowers 
whirled in kickin’ like a mule, an’ laid that 
young-’un low — kicked him sky-west and 
crooked, an’ Lawd ! how he yelled f’ his 
mammy ! Well, yer bet she come, too, an’ that 
orful quick. She shuck both her fistes in 
Brother Bowers’ face, an’ dar’d him t’ try that 
erg-in.” A faint, far-away chuckle advertised 
Sister Mackey’s enjoyment in the reminiscence 
of the g-ood old times. 

“Yes, sir,” she continued with much gusto ; 
“pappy jes’ sot thar on his mule an’ watched 
’em — pappy was a mighty sociable old feller, 
an’ was everlastin’ly mixed inter somebody’s 
fusses, an’ he jes’ sot thar an’ enjoyed ther 
row. Brother Bowers flung his hat at Sister 
Bowers, an’ cussed ther tops off’n ther trees. 
Then pappy says : ‘Brother Bowers, is yer 
tried ashes an’ hot water — bilin’ hot ?’ but ther 
ole man jes’ kep’ a walkin’ an’ a cussin’, an’ 
pappy says : ‘Bemme see yer fingers. Brother 
Bowers.’ Then he stops an’ takes off ther 
rag, an’ pappy ’lowed he never seed sich a 
sight in all his borned days, an’ he gwine on 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


193 


sixty. Well, the old ’oman steps up an’ says : 

see then she ketch a-holt of’ them 
two swelled up fingers an’ give ’em a twis’ an’ 
squoze ’em, an’ then a twis’ ergin, jes’ like 
she’s a-wringin’ a chicken’s haid off, an’ 
danced ’roun’ an’ hollered : ‘I’m even with ole 
Brother Bowers at las’, thank ther Lawd ! ” 

“La, me ! ’’ Sister Beard shivered. 

“I’d a killed her ! ’’ Sister Evans declared, 
stabbing the “ lone stair ’’ with her needle. 

“Sich a onhuman woman. I don’t like t’ 
study ’bout her.” Sister Amos pushed her 
chair back from the frame and stared at Sister 
Mackey. 

“Poor man ! ” Sister Broadnax said pity- 
ingly. 

“Hit kyored Brother Bowers all ther same 
— best doste o’ medercin’ he ever tuck,” Sister 
Mackey said, waving her knitting excitedly ; 
“jes’ what he needed, for when them fingers got 
well he never did sass Sister Bowers no mo’ — 
he was a plum good feller. I tell yer, ther men 
is too big-gitty ; they’ve got to be tuck down 
somehow, an’ it jes’ nachelly takes a Georgy 
'oman t’ to top ther cotton onct in a while. 
Yer never seed a Georgy ’oman run over an’ 
cow’d by no man ! ther cymlin-headed gumps ! 
I never was sorry for Brother Bowers,” she 
concluded with a chuckle. 

“Yes., sir ; ” after a pause and re-lighting 
her pipe ; “that sho did settle Brother Bowers 

13 


194 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


in mo ways*'n one, f’ he was a backslidin’ Meth- 
erdis’, and atter that mawnin’ he was a mourner 
in the fus’ meetin’ at the crosst-roads meetin’- 
house, an’ he come tho’o in a hour or so. Then 
he jin’d the Baptis’ at Rock Spring's, an’ always 
kep’ his r’lig*ion. Baptis’ ain’t nig’h es tricky in 
losin’ ther r’ligious p’nts es ther Metherdis’ is, 
no how. Yes, sir^ that bone fellum scrape holp 
Brother Bowers pow’ful.” 

Sister Broadnax raised her level Methodist 
head, and smiled indulgently. She pitied Sis- 
ter Mackey from the depth of her honest heart. 

Much would be added to the world if peo- 
ple would think to pity — remember, as did Sis- 
ter Broadnax, the small amenities, the little 
courtesies that each are due the other in every 
relation of life. On the other hand. Sister 
Mackey believed as strongly in “ speaking her 
mind,” regardless of whom her rough expres- 
sions wounded. 

“Sister Bowers,” continued Sister Mackey, 
“ was a Cammerlite, an’ show’d her faith by 
her works, a-twistin’ bone-fellum fingers.” 

Sister Amos stood back of the grim nar- 
rator. She “ made a face ” and winked good- 
naturedly, for away down in her “ Cammerlite ” 
heart rested, in love and peace, only best inten- 
tions and good will towards all Caanan. 

“Well,” Sister Evans said, with a sigh of 
relief, when she had finished her last shell, 
“we’ve been right smart. The quilt’s done. 
Sister Broadnax.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


195 


“And I thank you all so much, too.” 

“I’m thinkin’ ’bout that orful Sister Bow- 
ers.” Sister Amos laughed. 

“Sister Mackey tells inter^.9tin’ things,” 
Sister Evans remarked. “That inkerbuster 
tuck my eye, but Sister Bowers takes the 
cake.” 

“Is she daid. Sister Mackey?” 

“Not es I knows. She’s a fine ’oman. 
Georgy wimmin is all got grit. I ain’t never 
yit seed one as would let a man boss her. Yes, 
sir, they’ve got backbone an’ plenty of sand. 
It does me good to see ’em top ther cotton f’ 
ther uppity, biggitty men. Georgy wimmin is 
jes’ what’s got ther grit to’ do it.” 

“I b’leeve yer,” Sister Amos assured her, 
“I’ve seed one Georgy woman.” 

“Don’t yer see how I’ve got Pap under?” 
with a triumphant flourish of the blue-and- 
white sock. 

“I do, fer a fac’. Po’ ole ’Square ! ” 

“It tuck me an’ my maw a level year to’ 
git ther sass out’n pap ; but we done it. Yes, 
sir, we done it. Pap’s bette’n ole Moses hissef’ 
now ! ” 

“La, me ! ” sighed Sister Beard. 

“Yes, sir, ole Moses cain’t hoi’ a candle t’ 
pap f’ meekernis — nair candle ! ” 

Again the half-finished sock did duty as a 
battle flag, as Sister Amos declared fervently, 
“Don’t you forgit it. We all b’leeve yer ! ” 


196 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


THE WOMAN IN THE TEA GOWN, 


[a i,eaf from vaelombrosa.] 



HE MOONLIGHT filtered in arabesque 


1 patterns throug-fi the moss festooned oaks, 
making picturesque little patches of light here 
and there, and over yonder, where the rose 
vines climbed socially into the great magnolias, 
the shadows were darker by contrast. 

Down by the south gate, where the pink 
and white oleanders kissed each other over the 
rose hedge, stood the woman in the tea-gown. 

None of us knew her — only as the woman 
in the tea-gown. 

When the first rays of the morning sun 
glorified the restless, noisy surf as it came glint- 
ing and sparkling further and nearer up the 
beach, the woman in the tea-gown gazed ex- 
pectantly far a-sea. We were all sorry for 
her, as women will feel sorry for each other, 
but as yet none of us had dared cross the bar- 
rier of reserve with which she hedged her- 
self about. She was silent, faded and gray. 
She had no friends, no visitors, and our hearts 
ached with and for her ; for a more desolate 
creature we had never seen. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


197 


Even the postman’s ring- never caused an 
emotion of joy or sorrow with her, thoug-h 
the other ten of Mrs. Hill’s lady boarders were 
in a flutter of expectancy when the mail 
was being distributed during the morning 
meal. 

The woman in the tea-gown slowly re- 
tired from the dining-room with her tired, list- 
less step, and was not among us until the bell 
again summoned us to the table. If addressed, 
she answered slowly and quietly, glancing at 
her interlocutor with a steady look of her great 
black eyes, and then looked down upon her 
plate, conveying the idea plainer than words 
could have spoken, that politeness alone in- 
duced her reply. She wandered alone, always 
alone, up and down the rose hedge or on the 
beach, mysteriously silent, distressingly anx- 
ious. 

“That poor woman has a terrible heart- 
ache. It’s killing her,” said good Mrs. Hill, as 
the woman in the tea-gown stood on the beach 
one morning. 

The white-winged sea gulls were sailing 
between the sea and sky, and now and then one 
would splash into the water for its morning 
bath far beyond the breakers. 

“Who is she, anyway?” asked a visitor. 

“A sorrowing woman; that is all I can 
tell you,” Mrs. Hill replied. 


198 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


Weeks lengthened into months and stilly 
grave, faded, with her sombre gowns and list- 
less footsteps, the woman in the tea-gown lived 
in our midst as unknown as if she had worn an 
iron mask and spoken a different language. 

Gradually the interest in her died away. 
The lady boarders left ofP wondering about her, 
for she just stayed at the same point, neither 
lessening nor increasing her self-concentrated 
manner ; so sadly and wearily her days 
stretched along in their unbroken calm and un- 
wavering reserve. 

I had not given her up ; I never give up an 
object of interest or pity. She was stil) to me 
a thoughtful subject. Whether because I was 
more pertinacious than others, or because be- 
ing in the next room I seemed nearer to her, 
and could hear her walking up and down, up 
and down her room for hours, not restlessly, 
but with a solemn, continuous march which 
often lasted till the gray morning light glim- 
mered through my windows. Whether this 
made a bond between us unfelt by others, I do 
not know ; but certain it is, that long after the 
others had lost interest in her, I watched for 
an opportunity to break the terrible reserve 
which shut me out from her ideas, sentiments 
and sorrows. I felt sure that a talk and a cry 
with me would do us both good. 

After her sleepless, restless nights she 
would appear at the breakfast table with the 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


199 


same haggard look in her eyes, the same pa- 
tient, pitiful face and hopeless manner. 

One night I was writing letters in my room 
when a sob, deep and heart-breaking, came to 
me from the next room. 

It was irresistible. I could stand no more. 
Hastily putting aside my letter, I went into 
the hall. A light shone from the transom 
above her door. All was still except from the 
parlor stairs came a quartet of voices singing 
“Home, Sweet Home.’’ 

Again that awful sobbing as if a pent-up 
agony, like a mighty river bursting its bounds 
rushed distractedly, sweepingly into sound and 
action. Tears and sobs falling in mad sorrow 
and then a fall. 

“Come!’’ I called to the landlady, as she 
crossed the hall. 

“What is it ?” 

“The woman in the tea-gown,” I answered. 

“You open the door,” I suggested. 

“No; you know her, I do not.” 

I felt the impropriety of the intrusion, but 
as another sob reached my ears, I softly opened 
the door, influenced by a sympathy stronger 
than conventionalities. There upon the floor 
lay the woman in the tea-gown ; her long, 
abundant white hair in silvery confusion over 
her shoulders, her face buried in her arms, 
gathered in a reckless heap, writhing in help- 


200 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


ess misery. In front of her, leaning’ against 
the wall, was a full length portrait of a beauti- 
ful woman, so brilliantly and extravagantly 
beautiful that I wondered as I gazed upon it if 
lips so perfect and eyes so wickedly bright 
could ever have existed. The dress was of 
the fashion of twenty years ago. By the light 
of a lamp I looked upon the portrait, then at 
the woman in the tea-gown weeping at its feet, 
the antipodes of life, yet, in the lofty, petulant 
dignity of the one, I could trace a vague re- 
semblance to the lowly grief of the other. 

Had these melancholy eyes, so' veiled by 
sorrow, ever resembled those insolently beauti- 
ful eyes of the picture ? 

Was it Magdalen weeping before her for- 
mer self ? 

The more I looked the more I thought. 

“ ‘Inasmuch as ye do it unto one of the least 
of these,’ ” quoted good Mrs. Hill in a whisper. 

“Let’s go,” I nodded toward the door. 

In spite of our years and knowledge of the 
world, Mrs. Hill and I reproached ourselves 
and each other as we wiped our eyes in the se- 
clusion of my room, for not having said or done 
something to comfort the suffering creature in 
the next room. 

We heard her sobs exhaust themselves at 
last, then came the heavy, measured footfalls. 
Her door opened quickly. We were in the hall 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


201 


in a moment. The woman in the tea-gown 
glanced about her, then ran down the stairs. 

“Let’s follow her, poor creature!” Mrs. 
Hill hastily whispered. 

Once out of doors, the woman walked up 
and down the rose hedge, then out of the gate 
and down upon the beach, moaning and wring- 
ing her hands. 

We stood in the shadows of the oleanders, 
watching every movement. 

Suddenly, throwing her shawl over her 
head, she started up the street. 

“I know the town perfectly ; we will fol- 
low her, poor woman.” 

Together we went up one quiet street, 
down another, keeping the woman in the tea- 
gown in view, being no easy matter, as she no 
longer walked as if shod with lead. 

She stopped at last before a grand old 
house, brilliantly lighted as if for some festive 
occasion. She stood a moment looking up long- 
ingly at the crowds of people going in ; then 
turning the corner, she found a back gate, 
opened it and went in ; we followed close be- 
hind her. 

She stopped at last, almost in the glare of 
the lighted parlors, and screening her presence 
in the shadows of the dense shrubbery, she hun- 
grily watched and waited. 


202 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


The night was warm, yet she shivered. 
When looking up again, she saw in the center 
of the room a bridal party. 

“My baby-love,” she whispered, shrinking 
back. “My pretty baby Maude.” 

The bride was very young, fair and sweet- 
looking in her laces and orange-blossoms. A 
stout, elderly man, with an obstinate, unpleas- 
ant expression, stood on the left of the bride. 

“Her father, the devil’s own,” my land- 
lady whispered from behind our tree. 

He glanced suspiciously around, twice com- 
ing to the windows and gazing into the semi- 
darkness of the shadowed shrubbery. The 
woman in the tea-gown crouched lower and 
stared with painful intensity upon the scene 
within. 

The rustling of skirts and. silent attention 
of the assembly as they arose, a soft fluttering 
of fans and subdued whispers, a sigh and a 
smile, then a breathless silence. 

The ceremony was proceeding smoothly, 
when came the warning, “If an}^ man can show 
just cause why these may not be lawfully 
joined together, let him now speak or hereafter 
hold his peace.” 

“I forbid the sacrifice !” shouted the wo- 
man in the tea-gown. It rang out clearly 
through the grounds. It echoed from room to 
room in that grand old house. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


203 


x\ll was confusion, then came a momentary 
hush. Some one leaped from the windows, and 
all was hurry and pursuit. 

Mrs. Hill, with eag-er step, was at her 
side speaking- in low tones to the woman in the 
tea-g-own. 

“No, no!” she cried, “my little one shall 
not be sacrificed. My baby Maude !” she 
wailed. 

“Come with me, Edith. I know you now. 
Come dear,” pleaded Mrs. Hill. 

Breaking- away from us the woman in the 
tea-g-own walked boldly to the open window. 

I looked up. A vision of youth and lovli- 
ness was framed there in ivy, toward which 
the woman in the tea-gown hastened. 

“Maude!” she whispered, holding out 
both hands, such wasted little hands, to her. 

“Are you my mother?” the girl asked, 
wistfully bending nearer. 

“Maude, this is your mother. Come, if 
you would save her,” Mrs. Hill urged. 

The girl glanced around at the deserted 
parlors and whispered cautiously, “I will meet 
you at the back gate in a moment. Be quick ; 
they will all be back again.” 

The stars twinkled restlessly above our 
heads with a feverish, uncertain gloom, it 
seemed to me. There was no calm anywhere. 


204 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


While we waited outside the g'ate, the 
noise and confusion from the house again 
reached us. 

“Maude! Where is Maude?” we heard 
again and again. 

The gate opened softly and Maude was in 
her mother’s arms. 

We stole silently along a quiet street, 
mother and daughter walking rapidly in front 
until we reached the white sands of the de- 
serted beach. Then we four slowly strolled to 
our own gate under the oleanders. 

“Like an apple-blossom, isn’t she?” asked 
the woman in the tea-gown, when we were all 
safe up-stairs again, and she held her darling 
close to her poor tired heart. 

“I am sure her heart is as fresh and pure 
as her face, too,” Mrs. Hill cried, with tears 
of joy. 

Then we left them together. 

“I know the whole story from beginning 
to end. Edith Dalton was a beauty and a belle 
when she married that horrid Spaniard, La 
Riva, whom you saw to-night. She was mar- 
ried just where Maude stood in bridal array. 
They went abroad, and for years I heard noth- 
ing of them. In the meantime Edith’s father 
died, and she, being his only child, inherited 
his wealth. After several years came a report 
of Edith’s death. I did not know until to- 
night that La Riva was in the city.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


205 


“Do you think they are safe, will he not 
search for Maude?” I asked. 

“I dare say he will. We must manage to 
outwit him if possible. Good night.” 

I sat, listening to the murmuring of voices 
in the next room, until all was quiet. 

I was late getting to breakfast the next 
morning, but the woman in the tea-gown had 
not yet appeared with her “apple-blossom.” 

Noon came, and still they had not come out. 
Mrs. Hill knocked timidly and the door was 
opened by pretty Maude. 

“Mamma is sleeping,” she whispered. 

“Come out, honey, so you will not disturb 
her, and get acquainted with us,” Mrs. Hill 
suggested. 

Gently closing the door, the girl with Mrs. 
Hill came into my room. 

“I am so happy to find mamma,” she be- 
gan. “You don’t know how I have hungered 
and prayed for mamma, though my father told 
me she was wicked and had deserted us, I 
could never believe it. Mamma has spent all 
these years in an insane asylum, placed there 
by her husband. Was it not a miracle she 
found me last night? Was it not good of God? 
Mamma says she has watched and waited and 
prayed for her ship to come in, hoped against 
hope for me, her baby Maude.” 


206 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“But your marriage, Maude?’’ Mrs. Hill 
asked. 

“I have seen my would-be bridegroom once 
— last night — and hope never to see him again. 
I must thank you,’’ turning to me, “ for want- 
ing to be good to mamma. She says you looked 
sorry for her all the time, though she forbore 
to trouble anyone with her chapter of woes. I 
am so glad to find her portrait, too, and never 
knew before what became of it. It was sent 
to the asylum to her. I must see if she is 
awake,’’ and the child went swiftly though 
silently into the next room. A moment later 
she was back again. 

“She sleeps from exhaustion, poor, darling 
mamma.’’ 

“My dear little girl,’’ I ventured, “if you 
do not care for the man you came so near mar- 
rying last evening, why did you consent at 
all?’’ 

“My dear lady, you do not know my father 
or you would not ask such a question. It 
would be worth my liberty to oppose him. I 
am desperately afraid of him ; indeed, fear is 
the only feeling I have for him,’’ the child con- 
fessed, with a shudder. 

Maude ate her dinner in my room, so fear- 
ful of discovery was Mrs. Hill. Then she went 
back to her mother. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


207 


“I feel badly when I remember what I 
thoug-ht of the woman in the tea-g-own last 
nig'ht,” I confessed to my landlady. 

“Ah, my dear, we can not help thinking. 
I thought this morning of what George Eliot 
said : ‘ When death, the great reconciler, has 

come, it is never our tenderness we repent of, 
but our severity.’ We are but mortal and — ’’ 

“Maude’s white face startled us. 

“Come ! ” she cried. 

A smile of inelfable sweetness lighted the 
cold, dead face of the woman in the tea-gown. 
Every trace of suifering, every line of care, 
was smoothed out, and in death’s eternal sleep 
she rested. 

Her ship had at last come in, and she had 
sailed away on peaceful waters. 


208 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


BROKEN IDOLS. 


V HEN PEOPLE have passed the half- 
way house on life’s journey, their 
minds unconsciously drift into the past. Old 
memories, oft times unbidden, crowd upon each 
other, then sing’ly one takes up the thread of 
recollection, and as individuals one dissects, so 
to speak, each period of life. Childhood, with 
its careless irresponsibilities, its ever happy 
day, stands in every life a distinct factor. 

The period which reaches from g-irlhood to 
middle ag’e, thoug'h fraught with so many varie- 
ties of experiences and associations, the char- 
acter of every individul in whom we were in- 
terestiid is yet vivid and real. 

We recall every school friend and neighbor 
who are numbered among the loved of long 
ago. 

To-night the memory of my room-mate, 
Lina Gray, comes almost tangibly before me. 
For four years we were inseparable compan- 
ions ; then came the parting — she going East, I 
to my home in the West. 

After years of silence, a letter came from 
Lina Gray Elsworth, inviting me to visit her 
in her Florida home. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


209 


Twilight was closing in when, travel-worn 
and weary, I reached the town in which she 
lived, and through the gloaming I caught a 
glimpse of lovely surroundings of bush and 
dell and dingle. 

I had wondered why Lina had not married 
Ned Talbot, her long-ago lover, and still 
thought of it when the carriage stopped. 

It was a lovely October evening. The air 
was heavy with the odor of many flowers, 
which grew in luxuriant profusion, and pre- 
dominant came the perfume of Lina’s old favor- 
ite, the Grand Duke jasmine. 

I saw that it grew everj^where in beds on 
either side of the broad walk, in marble vases 
each side of the steps, everywhere lingered that 
intangible, haunting fragrance. 

How we met I scarcely know ; but neither 
spoke. Such long, sad years lay between our 
parting in the dear old Alma Mater and our 
meeting now ! “It is you, my ugly duckling,’’ 
she at last half sobbed, recalling the old pet 
name. 

The familiar voice, but so plaintive, the 
utterance so low and clear, broke the sealed 
fountain. I clasped her in my arms and wept. 

“Don’t, honey,” she whispered; “it’s all 
over now. We will let the ‘dead past bury 
its dead ’ and once more be happy school girls 
on a vacation.” 


14 


210 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


“You were not — ” 

“No, dear,” she quietly said, following- 
my thoughts into the past. 

“It is God’s will that we should suffer, the 
sin lies in bemoaning broken idols.” 

A shadow crossed her face and her words 
fell upon my heart like a sudden conviction. 
She saw it and said : 

“Come, I want you to see your room. It 
is ready for you, though I did not expect you 
until to-morrow. Your last letter said ‘look 
for me when you see me.’ It was so like you 
that I smiled over it. This is my ugly duck- 
ling’s room. I selected it because it is the 
pleasantest and most convenient, to my sitting 
room. See, it opens into my sanctum, and you 
will never feel lonely.” 

It was a dainty apartment — long and 
broad. All its appointments were as only L/ina, 
with her exquisite taste, could have chosen. 
The delicately-tinted walls, the gossamer lace 
which gracefully draped the windows, even the 
rose-colored lamp which threw its softened 
light over all, attested that rare refinement and 
delicacy of taste which was an essential attri- 
bute of her character. 

Lina had been “born to the purple,” I 
knew, but I had as yet had so little opportunity 
of judging of her present circumstances, that 
I looked about me with undisguised interest and 
curiosity. Lina smiled. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


211 


“Yes, my ugly duckling,” she answered 
my thoughts, “I have all that I desire and 
more than I deserve.” 

“And your husband, Lina?” with the free- 
dom of old time. 

“Is a noble, estimable man. I am, indeed, 
blessed.” 

Her tones satisfied me, though her words 
did not. 

“Dr. Elsworth is good and true — a grand, 
noble man,” she went on. “I am sorry he is 
away, but urgent business demanded his atten- 
tion. He will return tomorrow evening. You 
will like my husband, honey. I remember that 
you expected so much of a ‘genuine man.’ I 
am sure you will like Dr. Elsworth,” she confi- 
dently said ; and I did. 

We had ample and uninterrupted time for 
reviewing the years which had elapsed since 
we parted. 

Only one subject was tacitly avoided. Once 
or twice some chance expression seemed to ap- 
proach the forbidden topic, and I saw her wince 
and shrink back unconsciously. My own sor- 
rows were still too fresh for me not to feel in- 
tuitively that she too had suffered. 

The next day I met Dr. Elsworth. He 
was twice Lina’s age, tall, grave and dignified. 

I glanced involuntarily toward them as 
they stood side by side. She in all her elegant 


212 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


grace, dressed in a g‘own of soft heliotrope 
with the waxen green leaves of the jasmine she 
wore at her throat, lying against its ivory 
palor, and a thrill of disappointment rushed 
through me. A vision of Ned Talbot, the old- 
time lover, arose before me. Ned Talbot, with 
his handsome, boyish face bending over hers in 
such unutterable tenderness. 

Had she forgotten ? 

I had learned so many bitter lessons in hu- 
man falsehood that I had almost come to believe 
in nothing. Lina was my one remaining faith. 

Was she, too, like the rest? . 

It was twilight, when, going into the par- 
lor, I caught a glimpse of Lina’s white dress, 
as she sat at the piano softly playing. She 
did not see me. The old, old song filled the 
room with its wailing, and ended in a little sob. 
Again she sang. Her voice was thick with 
tears as she sang Infelice, and my heart ached 
with and for her as I listened. 

When Dr. Elsworth came in and coaxed 
her out on the veranda, I thought of a surety 
that Lina was indeed blest. 

The pleasant days sped on, as happy times 
go all too rapidly, and Lina was still so 
wrapped in her invulnerable mantle of dignity, 
that I strove in vain to read her heart. 

We recalled, one rainy day, that summer 
so long ago which she had spent with me in 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


213 


my western paradise, and Lina smiling-ly quo- 
ted from Mrs. Baer’s “Summer Idyl.” 

“Quiver of heat o’er the meadow’s breast, 

Glimmer of g’old where the reapers rest, 

The drooping leaves hang breathlessly ; 

Vaporous clouds in the azure blue, 

Radiant light where the sun shines through, 

The silver stream flows noiselessly.” 

“Go on, Lina,” I said, looking- around for 
a fan. “I can see it all — the willows, the 
river and all. Go on, dear.” 

“ ‘Stir of the wind in the quickened leaves. 

Billows of gold in the unbound sheaves — 

The rippling rill moves restlessly ; 

Dash of the rain in reapers’ eyes, 

IvO ! with the rainbow across the skies. 

Our thoughts melt into eternity.’ ” 

“Ah,” I breathed, “that summer-time so 
long- ag-o,” the summer preceding our parting 
at school, and I remembered ‘that Lina’s ca- 
pacity for an all-absorbing afPection, unselfish 
and unstinted, was to her nature’s most lavish 
gift. I now felt that it had also been the bane 
of her life. One evening after the guests had 
all departed, I sat alone in my room. 

A faint light stole from under the door 
leading to Lina’s sanctum. I knew she was 
writing and waited, hoping she would call me. 
I waited in vain. 

At last with the familiarity of a sister, I 
rapped, opened the door and entered. 


214 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


Lina turned and said quickly : 

“ ‘Her hopes are dead, yet through the starless night 
She watches for their ghosts — so silent and so white.’ ” 

“You look like a g’host, ‘so silent and so 
white’ yourself, Lina dear. Come, lie down.” 

“My ug'ly duckling*,” she sig*hed, when she 
had obeyed. 

“Your same ug*]y duckling*,” I tried to 
laug*h, as I knelt beside her and felt her hand 
upon my hair. 

“Turn off the lamp, honey. I want to 
talk. Dr. Elsworth will not be home until one 
o’clock. I always wait for him, you know.” 

“Now,” she said, when we had only the 
moon-lig*hted windows. “My g*ood, faithful 
duckling! Do you still believe in me, honey?” 
she asked in her old-time way. 

“Lina, I can not understand you; I can 
not,” I said, honestly if bluntly. 

“I have intended ever since you came to 
‘’fess,’ as we used to say at school. Indeed, 
that feeling was prime mover in my invitation 
to you to come to me, honey.” 

I waited. Her hand still smoothed my 
hair. 

“Of course you remember Ned Talbot?” 

Ah, did I not? 

“I will tell you the sequel to that sweet 
summer idyl of so long ago. Once only has it 
ever passed my lips. I confided my past to Dr. 
Elsworth, before our marriage.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


215 


“I’m so g'lad you did,” I said. 

“I hastened home from school to prepare 
for my marriage. You remember Ned was 
with me. When we reached the junction a 
lady dressed in deepest mourning, with her veil 
closely drawn, entered the coach and took a 
seat just back of us. She evidently shrank 
from notice, but from under her veil of crepe 
she scrutinized me, and then leaning her head 
against the window, seemed lost in thought. 

“Ned Talbot was in his gayest mood.” 

Lina paused. The hand upon my head 
trembled nervously. 

“There, there, honey,” I said, “don’t tell 
any more.” 

“Yes, I will finish. What is it Mrs. Baer 
says in “Sacrifice?” 

“ ‘My heart no more shall rise 
Above the drifts ; 

A summer’s sacrifice, 

O’er which snow drifts.’ ” 

I softly quoted. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it? Where did I leave 
off ? It was quite dark when we reached home. 
Ned left me in the waiting-room and went to 
find our carriage. 

“I sat there thinking of how charmed my 
aunt would be with Ned, 'my Ned.’ I was 
whispering to my heart, when I looked up, and 
saw the lady I had noticed on the cars standing 
before me. 


216 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“She threw back her veil, and I thoug’ht I 
had never seen so sweet and fair a face — a face 
like an apple-blossom. You remember little 
Blossie Wharton ? She was even prettier than 
Blossie. Her voice was unnaturally steady, as 
if forced to do her will. She made no prelim- 
inary remark, no excuses, but simply said to me: 

“ ‘Are you eng-ag-ed to marry hhnT'' with 
a slig'ht g*esture towards the door. 

“‘lam’ something- impelled me to reply, 
in the same spirit. I saw she was desperately 
in earnest. 

“ ‘May the Lord help you, poor child ! you 
have committed your fate to a heartless, per- 
jured man.’ 

“I was bewildered, and looked at her help- • 
lessly. 

“ ‘You are so young*, too — young-er than I ; 
your face is strong* with character — brig-ht with 
beauty. It is fearful to know the truth ; truth 
is often as cruel as death,’ she went on un- 
faltering*ly. 

“ ‘God knows I pity you — such a hideous 
fate ; but it is mine too, and I did not deserve 
it any more than you.’ 

“She paused a moment, then thrust a let- 
ter into my hand. 

“ ‘Take it,’ she whispered, ‘I have kept it 
two years, and each cruel word has burned 
itself into both heart and brain. Learn from 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


217 


them now before it is too late. Poor child,’ she 
said with infinite tenderness. 

“ ‘It is a hard and bitter lesson, but we 
must all learn it sometime. God bless you and 
make you perfect throug-h suffering !’ She 
stooped and kissed my forehead and walked 
away into the darkness. 

“I sat holding the letter tightly in my 
hand — the only tangible proof that all was not 
a hideous nightmare. 

“I read the worn, tear-stained letter many 
times before I slept. ‘Ned Talbot had writ- 
ten it.’ 

“My thoughts came and went. Lina was 
silent. The clock above her desk chimed the 
hour of twelve ; her arm still held me. 

“It was a wicked, heartless letter, and 
Ned Talbot had written it to the woman who 
gave it to me. The letter said, without a word 
of regret, that he had been mistaken in the 
nature of his feelings towards her, and begged 
a release from the engagement between them. 
He thought it only honorable that she should 
not be left in doubt regarding his intentions 
toward her. 

“ ‘A man who finds himself mistaken 
should certainly rectify that mistake. If a 
man promises to marry a woman, and finds 
that promise a burden instead of a joy, he 
would irreparably wrong both the woman and 


218 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


himself by keeping- it. It would be far kinder, 
much more honorable to acknowledg-e the error 
and beg* forg^iveness. A womanly woman would 
be g-rateful for such an escape,’ I declared with 
much fervor. 

“Ah, my ug-ly duckling- ! What is harder 
to bear than proofs of treachery in those we 
love? In that letter he spoke slig-hting-ly, 
even disrespectfully of me, of my ‘school-girl 
sentimentality’ — my ‘disgusting letters of love.’ 
I need not tell you of that long, awful night. 
I sat there as one bereft of reason — my idol 
shattered at my feet, its truth and purity for- 
ever gone ! Ah, my darling, there’s no such 
thing as mending a broken faith. 

“When Ned Talbot called the next day I 
sent the letter down to him asking to be ex- 
cused. I never saw the face of my lover again. 

“That is all. I had loved him so en- 
tirely, and though my faith in him was slain I 
could not in a few brief hours overcome the 
affection I had for years lavished upon him. 

“When he had gone I thought life had lost 
all of its brightness, and for years lived in the 
shadow of that sorrow. ‘Do you remember 
that little verse dear Miss Sarah Bradley was 
so fond of quoting to the girls? Repeat them, 
honey.’ 

“ ‘ ’Tis not the lover which is lost, 

The love for which we grieve, 

It is the price which they have cost. 

The memories they leave.’ 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


219 ^ 


“Thank you. Sometimes I recall the 
beautiful romance that filled my life for four 
years and have often lived it over ag’ain. Then 
I open that book wherein I recorded my mar- 
riage vows to one who is truth and honor itself 
— whose slightest word is sacred, and I close 
the book and reverently repeat : 

“ ‘Ah, what am I, that God hath saved 
Me from the doom I did desire, 

And crossed the lot myself had craved 
To set me hig-her.’ ” 

She fell again into silence. 

The moon shone on her sad, white face, and 
a tear glistened upon her cheek. 

“Dear ugly duckling I have something to 
show you.” 

“Never mind now.’’ 

“Yes. Good night, dear faithful heart,” 
she said, putting into my hands a tiny casket. 

“Good night, Lina, dear,” I answered, 
going into my room. 

The little casket held a photograph of a 
smiling, boyish face — the face so many had 
loved ; a spray of Grand Duke jasmine, with its 
ghost of a perfume, and a clipping from a 
newspaper, which read : 

“Talbot. — At his home in this city, 
Edwin K. Talbot, aged 26 years. 


220 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


RATTLESNAKE OIL. 


T 1 OW f’urn a fo’n — da — shi — on, 

Ye sents ob de Lawd, 

Is laid fer yer faif 
In His expellant wo’d. 

' What mo — ” 

The song* in Aunt Glory Ann’s hig-h sop- 
rano was cut short ; her next words were : 

“Dullawdy mussy !” 

She had almost set her bare feet upon a 
rustling- snake, and a sleek little lizzard darted 
from a heap of dead leaves near her. 

“Dullawdy! dullawdy mussy!” 

A glorious expanse of wood and dell and 
dingle in the bend of the creek surrounded 
Aunt Glory Ann as she stood with uplifted 
stick. 

Around her the bushes and undergrowth 
shone white with freshly-washed clothes, and 
the water in the great, black wash-pot bubbled 
and sizzled with the heat of burning brush 
around it. 

“Dullawdy mussy ! How kum yer peruse 
roun’ dis way to fool ’long o’ me? Say, yer 
ongodly sarpyant?” 

The snake lifted a defiant head and thrust 
out a challenging tongue. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


221 


“’Part, ’part dese coa’s, I say ! I ain’t 
nair fool. I tells yer same’s de preacher tell 
me., ’part dese coa’s, now yer heern me !” 

Only a darting tongue and a hiss was the 
answer. 

“Ah, ha! gwine t’ be uppish an’ sassy is 
yer ? I ’spec I hafter brooze yer haid wid dis 
battlin’ stick an’ den sot my heel on yer ole 
long naik, ’cordin’ t’ Sent Jeemses’ skripter.’’ 

The stick missed its aim, and after a rapid 
wriggle through the grass the snake again 
reared its head and hissed defiantly. 

“I heern yer, Mr. Snake, an’ I lay I kills 
yer likewise.’’ 

Wiping her hands dry. Aunt Glory Ann 
again rallied to the attack. 

“Dar now !’’ She had laid him low with a 
worse than bruised head. “How is yer copper- 
osity now? Is yer feelin’ pyeart an’ sassified 
wid yer hissin’ an’ spittin’ an’ sassin’? An’ I 
sho’ gwine hang yer daid body up in a saplin’ 
an’ bre’k up dis dry spell — caze hit’s a sho’ 
sign o’ rain t’ see a snake in a tree.’’ 

After much effort and many exclamations 
the snake was at last lodged among the lower 
branches of a tree, but it writhed and wriggled 
and fell in a heap on the grass. 

“Dullawdy mussy ! here yer is, is yer? 
Come atter more hick’ry tea?” 


222 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


The stick came down in repeated blows, 
and the snake was ag'ain hoisted among- the 
leaves. 

''Now I got yer — ain’t got no mo’ haid dan 
a rock. I sho’ brooze dat sarpyant’s haid. 
Who dat ? Dullawdy mussy !” 

“I’se boun’ f’ de proinus la — a — a — n’ 

I’se boun’ f’ de promus Ian’, 

Oh, who will come an’ g-o wid me ? 

I’se boun’ f’ de promus Ian’.” 

The song came like an echo down the 
waters of the little creek, and Aunt Glory Ann 
stopped her work to listen. 

“Ole Zack he too lazy t’ get dar ef he starts 
dar ; better be boun’ f’ dat cott’n patch,” she 
said, addressing the wash-pot, as she resumed 
her rub-a-dub on the wash-board. 

Nearer came the song — over the water — 
through the silent summertime of light and 
shade and harmonious blending of earth, sky 
and water. 

“I’se gwine t’ quit dis wor’l o’ woe, 

I’se boun’ f’ de promus Ian’; 

I’se ti’ed trabblin’ here below, 

I’se boun’ f’ de promus Ian’.” 

“Dullawdy mussy ! Dat foolyfied nigger 
call dat growlin’ an’ mumblin’ singin’! Zack 
cain’t do no sowt o’ singin.’ Dis is what / 
calls singin’ an’ glorifyin’ de Lawd mixed,” 
she confided to the tub. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


223 


She jerked o£F her bandana, cleared her 
throat, and raising* her head she said to the 
shade above her, “Now jes yer liss’n. I g* wine 
cut loose an’ sing‘1 Sing*in’ ain’t g*rowlin’, ner 
yit mumblyfide howlin’. Jes liss’n. ‘’ 

“A chawag-e t’ keep I has, 

A Gawd t’ glo — a — ri — fy — ee, 

A nebber dyin’ so — el t’ sa — ev 
A’ fittin’ hit f’ de sky — ee — ee.” 

Away over the creek a mocking-bird took 
up the lingering high notes and trilled to a 
wood-wren’s twitter, while each swung on a 
topmost branch enjoying the sunshine — revel- 
ing in the balmy air. 

“ ’Mawnin’, Sis Gelory Ain.” 

“Dullawdy mussy ! Dat’s a po’ way t’ 
s’lute a sister in de Lawd. Skeer’d me plum 
white’s a sheet ! Whar yer come from, brer 
Zackyrias ? How’s all?” 

“Po’ly, Sis Gelory Ain, po’ly.” 

Uncle Zack was a short, bow-legged old 
darky whom his enemies derisively called a 
“hoodoo nigger.” His head was a great cushion 
of white wool, and his greasy old countenance 
wore an everlasting smirk. He had never been 
'known to work, and though his wants were 
simple they were grudgingly supplied by his 
hard-fisted wife, who cooked for “young Mis- 
tis ” and easily supported the brood of pica- 
ninnies that swarmed about her cabin. 


224 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Yaasm, dat rheumatic I has wid me al- 
ways all de time ; but I don’t stop a-praisin’ de 
Lawdf’dat. Sis Gelory Ain, ’ligio’ns a mig-hty 
lie’per.” 

“He, he, he,” g'ig'gled Aunt Glory Ann. 

“Wuffer yer laffin’. Sis Gelory Ain?” 

“Ah, ah, ah ! I jes’ sorter study in’ ’bout 
whot old Miss say.” 

“O’ man! I extonished, I is dat! laffin’ t’ 
old Miss !” 

“Ole Mistis say lazy man’s ain’t giot no 
’ligion — caze de Lawd won’t hab ’em ’bout. 
Lazy folks too lazy t’ sarb de Lawd, dat’s 
g'awspil fac’.” 

Well,” Uncle Zack said reflectively, “I has 
de rheumrtiz an’ ain,t no ‘count f’ de plow ner 
de hoe. Eber sence ole Mawster kick de 
bucket ole Zack been po’ly.” 

“Whyn’t yer cyore yerse’f, brer Zack? 
Rattlesnake ile cyore a allygater — when he 
hawng-ry f’ a tas’e o’ nig-g-er meat.” 

“I ain’t skeerd o’ snakes — nair kind o’ 
riptiles ain’t a-skeerin’ Zack.” 

“I lay yer ain’t kill none,” Aunt Glory 
Ann said taunting’ly. 

“I know I is, too, kill lots o’ snakes ebry 
day I sees.” 

“Whar, brer Zack?” Aunt Glory Ann 
stretched a sheet on the g'rass. 

“Anywhar.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


225 


“Whar?” 

“Jes’ anywhar.” 

“Yas, brer Zack, jes’ anywhar is jes no- 
whar t’ me.” 

“Yer knows dat goober’ patch down 
yan’er — back o’ de hawselot ’way down dar?” 

“In cose.” 

“Wellum, yistiddy, down dar in dem high 
weeds I heern som’n go curis.” 

“How hit go, brer Zack!” Aunt Glory^ 
Ann’s face was all smiles now. She rested her 
arms on the wash-board and listened atten- 
tively. 

“I was steppin’ ’long bris’ an’ jimplicute 
when I hears zip-zip-z-z-z-zip close t’ my feet- 
ses. I know’d hit was a rattler f’om rattle- 
town. Den an’ dar I whirls in an’ up an’ slevvd 
dat varmint quick’n llghtnin’.” 

“Dullawdy mussy 1” 

“Lawd, ’oman, dat ain’t nigh all. I hears 
som’n go swish, swishin’ in de grass, an’ be- 
hole, an’ lo ! whatcher reckin’ it air ?” 

“Ghos’es?” Aunt Glory Ann’s voice sank 
to a whisper. 

“Nome, norney 

“Ha’nts?” 

“Nome ; hit’s enfont rattle-babies, smartes’ 
leetle rascals yer eber seed — a-switchin’ roun’ 
lively huntin’ f’ dey maw.” 


15 


226 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“How much is dey ?” 

“I counts sixteen what comes up an’ weeps 
’bout dey po’ daid mammy.’’ 

“What de matter wid dey mammy?’’ 

“Daid ; I done slewd dat snake.” 

“Did yer g-it de ile?” 

“Done sot up all night bilin’ de ile out’n 
dat riptile f’ my rheumatic, den here come Sis 
M’ria an’ ’lows how hit’s de ile in de aig^s o’ de 
snake whot’s got de cyore in ’em.” 

“Dullawdy mussy !” ejaculated his audi- 
ence, smoking a cob pipe. 

“Dullawdy mussy!” hit’s plum curis, but 
doe de rattlesnake aint no aig-layin’ snake, no 
sir, nair aig.” 

“Is yer gwine ’etrackted. Sis Gelory Ain? 
Snakes all de time a-laying aigs same’s a chick- 
ing hen.” 

“I ’sputes dat. Chick’n snake lay aigs. 

“Dat’s one,” Uncle Zack counted on his 
fingers. 

“Black snake lay aigs.” 

“Dat’s two.” 

“Gyarter snake lay aigs.” 

“Dat’s free.” 

“Kingsnake lay aigs.” 

“Dat’s four.” 

“’Taint nair pi2;en snake a-layin’ nair aig-. 
No sir. Pizen snake ain’t studin’ nuffin’ but 
fightin’ somebody. See dat un’ I hang dar f’ 
rain?” pointing to her trophy in the tree. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


227 


“I seed her; she laid ober a nes’ful aigfs 
dis year, I spec.” 

“’Taint no pi 2 ;en snake ef she lays a aig,” 
Aunt Glory Ann insisted. 

“De ile whot cyores de pain in de jyints is 
sho de ile in de aig whot de rattlesnake lay,” 
Uncle Zack placidly stated, “caze de plain ile 
o’ de snake ain’t a-gwine t’ cyore de jynts. I 
tries dat ile, an’ I knows.” 

“Dat’s all right, brer Zack, when yer fin’s 
dat nes’ jes’ sont f’ ole Glory Ann an’ maybyso 
she bleeve whot she see.” 

“I’m bleeged t’ yer,” Uncle Zack said with 
dignity. “Rattlesnakes has nes’es same’s a 
hen, an’ lays an’ sots an’ hatches same’s a 
pyore, sho’ nuf hen.” 

“Dullawdy mussy ! Uis’en dat Annynois ! 
Lyin’ same’s a dawg !” 

“Look here, nigger! Yer cain’t call 7ne 
sick disregyardable chat. I say rattlesnakes 
is got aigs, an’ I say hit till my tongue drap 
clean out’n dis mouf.” 

“Dullawdy mussy ! ’ Taint no rattlesnake 

aig, ' taint T' 

“/ say dey airT'' Uncle Zack had risen . 
and stood near the wash-tub facing Aunt Glory 
Ann. 

“Take dat home wid yer, hoodo nigger!” 

The blow she gave his head with her stick 
was enough to have felled an ox ; another 


228 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


whack across his shoulders when he turned to 
run g-ave impetus to his flig'ht. 

“Dullawdy mussy ! Dat ole nigger ain’t 
needin’ no sawt o’ ile f’ his ole jyants — got 
’bout much rheumatic as a rabbit er er coon — 
jes’ need a good dose o’ battlin’-stick shook well 
on his lazy ole back, dat’ll cyore Zack’s rheunia- 
tiz. Snake aigs ! RattlesmX^o. aigs ! Sich a 
fool nigger !” and Aunt Glory Ann resumed her 
work and again caroled to the trees, the creek 
and the listening birds. 



MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


229 


^^THE LEAST OF THESE:' 


T he RALN poured pitilessly — not with the 
pleasant murmurous sounds as is usual 
with midsummer showers, like fairy feet pat- 
tering- over the green lawn, nor with showery 
April-day coquetry ; but with a hopeless, per- 
sistent downpour that filled the walks with 
mimic lakes and dripped with dull monotony 
from the vines on the porch. 

The day was doubly drear, I had read until 
my aching eyes forbade farther persecution 
and I wandered aimlessly about the house until 
I reached the back gallery where in a blissful 
doze sat my laundress. Aunt Sallie. 

“Having a good time. Aunt Sallie?” I 
asked pleasantly. 

With a jerk of her turbaned head she 
awoke, and with a sleepy “Mornin’ Mistis,” 
she cleared her throat and smiled upon me. 
“Saysome’n t’ me, Mistis?” 

“Are you having a good time?” 

“Umk, umk,” she grunted. I is had bet- 
ter times, honey. Dishere rain don’t suit my 
work — gotty git dem clo’s dry some how er 
nother. Mistis, yer ’min’s me ’o Miss ’Sula, 


230 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


unly Miss ’Sula’s got de blues’ eyes,” she re- 
marked shuffling around in her chair to face me. 

“And who is Miss ’Sula ?” I inquired, smil- 
ing into the pleasant black face before me. 

“Looky here ! Don’t you know Miss ’Sula 
Tolliver, who lives in dat big house on de aige 
o’ town ?” 

I shook my head. 

“You ain’t been here long, dats a fac’. 
Miss ’Sula’s my young mistis, honey. We 
useter to be folks, chile. Our Qua’tter was 
plum’ full o’ niggers an’ dat lot full o’ big fat 
mules, too, in Maws Joe’s time. Me an’ Miss 
’Sula got bawned de same year an’ atter her 
maw die Maws Joe, her paw, whirl in an’ ma’ry 
a putty gal name Miss Helen. Den Maws Joe 
he dies an’ leave Miss Helen an’ Mars Jam an’ 
me an’ Miss ’Sula de bag to’ hoi’. Den in ’bout 
a year Miss Helen she ups an’ die, too. I ain’t 
lef’ Miss ’Sula ’n’ Maws Jam yit, an’ what’s 
mo’ I ain’t a gwine t’ leave her.” 

“Is he her husband ?” 

“Who? Maws Jam? Umk, umk. Nome. 
Miss ’Sula ain’t got nair husb’n — no, chile — no 
mo’ husb’n dan a rabbit. She des sont dat 
Maws Harry Cuthb’t a windin’ long ’fore de 
war. Nome. Maws Jam’s Miss ’Sula’s ha’af 
brother, he is. Yes’m.” 

I sat silently waiting for her to go on with 
her story, for I suspected an old romance slum- 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


231 


bered in the background of Aunt Sallie’s 
thoug-hts. 

“Yess’m,” she presently resumed. 

“We Tollivers ain’t got nothn’ t’ hide — 
none of us ain’t got nair thing disregyardable 
’bout our pedigree, white ner black. Lots o’ 
our same niggers in dat ole Qua’tter yit an’ 
workin’ de same ole plantashin. Po’ Miss ’Sula 
gotty pow’ful load on her shoulders, sombody 
gotty he’p her.” 

“Is her brother a man now ? 

“Yes’m. Maws Jam’s a mighty big man,” 
with a sigh. 

“Why does he not take care of her? 

“Lawd, honey. Maws Jam can’t take keer 
hisse’f — not nigh. 

“Umk, umk, umk. You see, honey. Maws 
Jam’s ’flicted.” 

“How?” 

“Maws Jam’s a bawn ejit, he don’t know 
nothin’ an’ when Miss Helen died me an’ Miss 
’Sula promis’t t’ take keer dat chile long’s we 
live — an’ honey, we done it. Dis here what I’m 
tellin’ you is a sho’ fac’, chile. Well, de rain 
sorter slacked up. I b’lieve I’ll git dem clo’s 
on de line.” 

******* 

A few days after Aunt Sallie had aroused 
a friendly curiosity concerning the Tollivers, I 
heard the whole touching story of Miss Ursula’s 
life and sacrifice. 


232 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


Her half brother, John Tolliver, had never 
spoken an articulate word in the twenty years 
of his life ; he had never passed in mind beyond 
his first year of babyhood, and as he grew into 
sturdy physical boyhood, his bursts of temper 
and the demon of mischief which seemed to 
possess him made him an object of dread for 
3"ears. Whatever mischief he found he did 
with might and main. Six feet tall and pro- 
portionately stout, he was capable of much 
wanton cruelty. Therefore, when he fell from 
the steeple of the village church where, in a 
freak of lunac}" he had climbed, the terrorized 
villagers rejoiced, and when they heard from 
the physician that the idiot, known as “Miss 
Ursula’s Johnnie,” was maimed for life, they 
were indeed glad. 

Then the utter helplessness that demanded 
constant and watchful care made life a weary 
thing for. Mis Ursula and Aunt Sallie. 

Miss Ursula’s friends had urged her to 
send her brother to the safe seclusion of an 
asylnm, but her indignant refusals forever 
silenced importunities of a like nature. 

Though only twenty when she gave her 
solemn vow to the dying stepmother. Miss Ur- 
sula realized in a measure what her life would 
be, and as the years unfolded their slow, long- 
drawn, torture, she felt the blight that the 
promise had laid upon her life — a sacrifice so 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


233 


disproportioned to the end to be gained. Such 
sacrifices have been made ever since Eve shielded 
Adam in Eden, and will continue as long as 
women live. Every day of her lonely life Miss 
Ursula recalled those gasping, dying words, 
“ ‘Inasmuch as ye do it unto the least of these’ 
— May God deal with you as you deal with my 
child,” and the years crept sadly on, filled with 
unremitting toil and anxious care. 

Each day was lived out faithfully and 
truly. Not one rosy dawn nor flaming sunset, 
nor the shining hours between were ever stained 
by careless living. On the Other Side, beauti- 
ful duplicates of these days of self-abnegation 
waited for Miss Ursula and Aunt Sallie — days 
of undesecrated holiness, of joy and of glory ; 
for not once in all these weary years of bond- 
age had the two women sent an impure, un- 
profitable day into eternity. 

Lovers came and went ; for in her youth 
Miss Ursula was a beautiful, vivacious girl — 
now at forty she was a gray statue, gray- 
haired, gray-eyed, gray-clad. 

Aunt Sallie had clung to her through 
changing scenes and fortune. Neither woman 
complained, and each religiously loved and 
helped the other. Two women with clean, 
white souls — albiet one wore a black skin, the 
spirit within her was God-blest and fair. 

Twenty years ! 


234 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


Miss Ursula was thinking’ it over on this, 
the twentieth anniversary of her stepmother’s 
death. Twenty years! What may not happen 
in twenty years? 

She had laid flowers on the two g’raves in 
the g’arden at sunset, and leaning" against the 
marble death record. Miss Ursula had prayed 
that the dead might know she had kept her 
vow. Then, in faith most holy, she believed 
her prayer answered, and returned to the 
house. The imbecile had been unusually 
troublesome that week, and in affectionate 
charity both women said: “Johnnie is sick’’ — 
he was always sick when particularly unman- 
ageable; neither spoke of the trouble he gave. 

Though unable to walk, the idiot was dan- 
gerously strong, and in his spasms of rage he 
would crush the life out of any living thing 
that came within his reach. 

A neighbor called after supper and gave 
Miss Ursula a letter ; it was a rare occurrence, 
for she had no correspondents. Every one be- 
longing to the far away, lovelit days, seemed 
to have dropped out of her life. 

After soothing the whining idiot in the 
next room to sleep. Miss Ursula sat on one side 
of the little table which held the lamp, while 
her friend. Aunt Sallie, nodded and knit on the 
other. No word was spoken. Miss Ursula calmly 
opened the letter, and as calmly read to the 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


235 


end, then folding it as silently, she sat looking 
into the fire — thinking — thinking — thinking. 

“Ump ! umk!” Aunt Sallie grunted; but 
her companion heeded not. 

Youth had gone — ran Miss Ursula’s 
thoughts — and with it went all of grace and 
beauty she had ever possessed. No need to 
read the record of twenty monotonous years in 
their dreary stretch ’tween then and now ! It 
was, she felt, as if a gay butterly had folded 
its wings and been again shut up in a chrysalis^ 

‘ ‘Umk — um — umk !” Aunt Sallie felt snub- 
bed. 

Gazing into the fire Miss Ursula’s soul was 
far away. That closely written letter was a 
revelation — an awakening of long slumbering 
memories. She was now past forty — an old 
maid— and her prim little ways and habits, oft- 
times ludicrous peculiarities, were not the off- 
springs of illnature or selfishness, but sore 
things learned in the dreariness of poverty and 
sacrifice. She was thinking of the writer of 
that letter, Harry Cuthbert, “Handsome Har- 
ry,” the girls called him in the old days. She 
had sent Harry away twenty years ago. Twenty 
3^ears had not dimmed her loyalty ; she was as 
faithful to her promise now as then ; never 
would she leave Johnnie. For twenty years 
she heard nothing of Harry Cuthbert ; no sign 


236 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


nor token until this letter came. He was re- 
turning- — for her, he had written. 

Miss Ursula was so silent in the days that 
followed, that Aunt Sallie resented it. 

“Umk ! umk ! umk ! Miss ’Sula des set on 
dat back gal’ry a read’n’ an’ a read’n’ same’s 
if Sallie ain’t no whar. Umk — umk — an’ when 
she ain’t on dat gal’ry she’s standin’ by de 
graveyard fence a lookin’ plum’ curi’s an’ 
quare. Huh, dishere don’t suit dis nigger lady ! 
I’m a Tolliver myse’f — me ! 

The little girls of a neighbor played around 
Miss Ursula’ door and romped under the old 
trees, and wondered why she never spoke or 

told them stories for a whole week. 

******** 

I saw Miss Ursula at church one bright 
spring morning, and when the words, “Inas- 
much as ye do it unto one of the least of these,” 
were read, I noticed tears falling upon the gray 
dress beside me, and smiles of ineffable sweet- 
ness glorified Miss Ursula’s pure, pale face as 
she sat with bowed head and folded hands. 

“God is so good,” she whispered, when we 
were leaving the church. 

“Yes He is,” smiling at my look of pity. 

“He has never let me doubt for a moment 
that the Cross I am bearing is intended for 
ultimate good to me, and the thought that I am 
absolutely necessary to at least one life, keeps 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


237 


me contented and grateful. Yes, dear, God is 
g'ood to me.” 

This, then, was her comfort and support ; 
this the reward of twenty years of bondage. 

“Inasmuch as ye do it unto one of the least 
of these,” she quoted, when she shook my hand 
in parting. 

A week later Miss Ursula was sweeping 
off the back gallery, and as she swept she 
searched her heart — her life — her soul. That 
mysterious combination of mind and matter, 
herself, her secret springs of action, her mo- 
tives themselves, all of which she concluded 
were imperfect. The most accurate knowledge 
of herself was yet to be revealed, when she 
would know in loving certainty whether her 
life had been “an offering worthy of Heaven.” 

“What in me is dark, illumine; what is 
weak, raise and support,” she prayed when 
she hung the broom on its accustomed nail. 
Thus meditating and praying, she was startled 
to hear voices on the front porch — a child’s 
glad laugh joined by the deeper voice of a 
man. 

Through the long hall she hastened, to 
find a pretty little girl frolicking with the kit- 
tens, while a handsome, middle-aged man^ 
smiled in symyathetic approval. 

“Good morning!” the child cried, drop- 
ping her kittens in her haste to reach the gray- 


238 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


clad figure in the doorway. “Will you please 
tell my Aunt Ursula we’ve come. I am named 
for her, and we’ve come to take her home with 
us.” 

Miss Ursula stooped and kissed the up- 
turned face, and looked into the brown eyes — 
eyes so like the pair that once held her light o’ 
love. 

“Are you Miss Ursula Tolliver?” the man 
asked, in pained surprise. 

“I don’t wonder you ask, Harry, but I 
should have known you anywhere.” 

They sat upon the old porch and talked — 
the old porch where twenty years ago he had 
sworn undying fealty — while the child romped 
with the kittens. 

This pale gray woman was not the one 
whose image Harry Cuthbert had treasured so 
many years in the sanctum sanctorum of heart 
and soul — those years in which another had 
called him husband. This prim, gray spinster 
who towered bony and lank before dropping 
limply into a chair was not the angel of his 
love-dream. 

The shock of this mouse-colored caricature 
of the vivacious beauty of happier days mur- 
dered long cherished hopes and romance fled 
affrighted. 

This pale, gray ghost the once beautiful 
Ursula Tolliver? He could not realize it ; his 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


239 


dream of re-union and sweet companionship 
melted like mist before the sun. 

Harry Cuthbert had come back to his na- 
tive village for a mother for his orphan. What 
a fool, he told himself, he had been to forget 
that in a blighting life like hers had been she 
must fade — fade and wither. 

“I may not see you again,” he said when 
he shook her hand at parting. 

“Good-bye, Harry, and God bless you,” 
had been her parting words. 

Miss Ursula choked back a sob when she 
watched the father and child drive away. The 
gates of Heaven had opened a very little way, 
and in swinging back had crushed her and left 
her outside. The Cross was heavy and bitter 
today and the thongs that bound it very sharp 
and cruel. Her face was whiter and more 
pinched when she went in to quiet the fretings 
of “the least of these” — that half-brother, 
whose life had so blotted the light of Heaven 
from hers. When she knelt beside and soothed 
him the thought came to her, “Have I kept the 
faith — have I prayed, trusted and worked 
enough ?” 

“There, there, Johnnie, ’Sula knows,” she 
said coaxingly; “ ’Sula knows.” 

The words came involuntarily to her lips 
and broke the dumb anguish of her soul. 

“ ’Sula knows,” she said a hundred times 
a day. It meant love, strength and sympathy. 


240 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


The imbecile understood nothing, but the 
sound of her voice comforted him. 

“Johnnie trusts me as I should trust God. 
In His sight I am as ignorant and helpless as 
he,” she said to Aunt Sallie’s mild reproaches. 

Harry Cuthbert went back to the village 
in a paradoxical state of feeling. He felt that 
the man who for twenty years had been absent 
from his native shades had best remain away 
forever. 

To return is to destroy illusions heretofore 
delighted in. Dear, familiar friends are 
changed — dead — married or gone away. Few 
stings burn sharper than the consciousness of 
being a stranger where one was once a cher- 
ished comrade. Harry Cuthbert felt a twinge 
of resentment for Miss Ursula for the meta- 
morphosis she had sulfered. 

Alas ! The ideal is never real in this life. 
Ideals are like mountain peaks whose everlast- 
ing snows gleam and glitter amid the deep 
azure of the far away skies; we look up to them 
wistfully and when the weary ascent is made 
we are disappointed — our souls long for the 
bright valley below — we sigh to remember the 
fragrant shadowy woods, the rippling brooks, 
the sunshine and songs of birds; we long again 
for the sweet, whispering leaf-music of the de- 
serted valley. 

Poor, faded Ursula! So good, so pure, yet 
so unbeautiful ! Homely faces, things that 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


241 


other men bore philosophically, even pleas- 
antly, were repulsive to Harry Cuthbert. He 
shrank from a plain face as from a loathsome 
object. He chided his unfaithful soul and 
could but acknowledgfe to his conscience that 
had their respective positions been reversed she 
would never have played the craven as he had 
done. 

Miss Ursula had no such bitter reproach; 
she opened her oftenest-read Book and smiled 
through her tears as she re-read the story — the 
sweet, safe story of Everlasting Love ; then 
strong in soul she went about her accustomed 
duties ; for now the Cross was lighter. He 
exalted not personal beauty, nor wealth nor 
position, but commended gentleness and loving- 
ness and the lifting of burdens. Miss Ursula 
smiled again, realizing the nearness of the 
Everlasting Arms. 

Harry Cuthbert scolded himself into posi- 
tive unhappiness and his accusing conscience 
gave no respite. He scolded the little one into 
tears and drove into the village a very miser- 
able man. 

At that moment Miss Ursula and Aunt 
Sally were ministering to the shrinking imbe- 
cile in the rear room. 

“He’s cold,” Aunt Sallie said, piling on 
more covers. “What sort o’ spell you call dis, 
Miss ’Sula?” 


16 


242 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Paralysis. There, there, ’Sula knows,” 
she murmered, wiping- the death damp from 
the poor idiotic face. Slowly throug-h the 
darkness and gloom the light of the better 
knowledge dawned, and that Peace which a 
consciousness of simple faith brings lighted the 
plain, faded features, and when Miss Ursula 
folded the cruel, restless hands, kissed the nar- 
row, receding forehead, she said, tremblingly : 

“Well, Sallie, our work is done,” 

“Yes’m, umk, umk. I got Miss ’Sula an’ 
Miss ’Sula got ole Sallie. Umk, umk. Des us 
two lef’, dat’s all, umk. 

* ***** * 

So sad is my story that my heart has 
ached with the writing of it and my eyes over- 
flowed when I first heard this record -of the 
heroism of faithful hearts in one of life’s by- 
places. 

Miss Ursula and her loyal Sallie still live 
and love in the old home. They are no longer 
worn and tired, and through each wrinkled 
face — one white, one black — the glory and 
beauty of the soul illumines and in each pair of 
faded eyes shines a reflection of the light of the 
New Jerusalem. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


243 


RICHARD EDWARDS, ES.^UIRE, 
COTTON BROKER. 

OR MY PART,” the voice came from 
1 behind the scarlet and g’old portieres. 

“I had as lief talk to a stick !” 

“Or a pair of tongs,” laughed another. 

“Or a rag doll,” suggested Nathalie De 
Barrios. 

“Oh !” sweet India Leland sighed. “One 
can amuse ones’ self with a rag doll. I still 
remember my infantile affection for one par- 
ticularly distorted, bumpy specimen.” 

“But that man !” 

“He never imagines what a bore he is, poor 
fellowd” 

“Ah,” I thought, smiling, “ it’s young 
Brownlow they are discussing. What a joke ! 
Pity he doesn’t hear it,” and I mentally quoted 
“O, wad some power.” 

“I cannot agree with you,” said a calm, 
smooth voice, which I recognized as Helen 
Savage’s — an old-time friend. “I like his 
quiet dignity.” 

“Quiet fiddlesticks !” scornfully ejaculated 
the first voice. 


244 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


Quiet dignity, indeed ! Young Brownlow 
had not the dignity of a sparrow ; in fact, he 
was as kittenish as a school girl. 

Of whom could they be talking ? I could 
not just then extricate myself, so hemmed in 
was I by the laughing, merry bevy of “sweet 
girl graduates ” and their respective admirers. 

“Now, Ethel,” came the voice of Helen 
Savage, “what is your objection to the gentle- 
man in question?” 

“Well — I just don’t like him.” 

“‘I do not like" you. Dr. Fell,’” India 
Leland quoted. 

“I always have a reason for vty likes and 
dislikes ; there’s no Dr. Fell in it.” 

“We are waiting, Ethel.” 

“Oh, I don’t know — he’s so cottony.” 

A deluge of rippling laughter greeted this 
speech. 

“ ‘So cottony.’ And what is that, pray?” 

. I listened breathlessly for the explanation. 

“When I said cotton3^ I meant cottony. 
He talks cotton, buys and sells cotton, and 
when he dies I hope he will go to cotton.” 

“Why, Ethel ! You absurd child !” Helen 
Savage cried, stifling a laugh. 

“It’s the truth, all the same, she insisted. 
“Last evening he dined with us, and he and 
papa talked nothing but cotton ; therefore, I 
again declare him to be a cottony man.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


245 


“That’s quite orig-inal, Ethel,” again 
Helen’s voice. “ I have known him all my life, 
/would call him ‘booky’ — not cottony.” 

Of whom were they speaking ? I began 
to feel a trifle curious. 

“Yes,” continued Helen Savage, “I have 
known him all my life, and I never knew a — ” 
“Oh, do hush ! Don’t preach, for pity 
sake ! That man — ” 

“Is a magnificent — ” 

“Too cottony, too cottony!” cried Ethel. 
“I think him very entertaining. He knows 
Dickens and Milton, and — ” 

“Cotton,” Ethel put in. 

Of what manner of man were they speak- 
ing? I was being fairly tortured. 

“I think he’s mighty nice — so dignified and 
quiet,” spoke India Deland. 

“^, cried Ethel, impatiently; if there’s 
anything I detest next to a cottony man, it is 
one of these quiet, wooden men. I have seen 
car loads of men with no more animation than — 

than ” 

“Rag dolls ?” 

“Yes, rag dolls will do. I like some snap 
in a man — a spice of deviltry and no cotton.” 

“I think every man has a sufficiency of his 
Satanic Majesty in his composition ; for, Satan 
being a personage of human passions and super- 
human power, finds easy sailing into the sane- 


246 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


turn sanctorum of men’s natures, and usually 
g’ets the lion’s share of men’s affections and 
interests,” said Helen Savag’e. 

“I can forgive anything in a man — anything' 
except dignity and cotton. I have positively 
heard more sighs over the price of cotton than 
all the cotton in the South would cover. Oh, 
I hate cotton ! By the way, Helen, is that last 
your opinion of Mr. Dick Edwards?” asked 
Ethel. 

“No, not of him, particularly.” 

“Good heavens !” I mentally cried. “They 
are talking of me'^ What an upleasant dis- 
covery ! 

“Who is Mr. Dick Edwards?” innocently 
inquired Marie Dupont. 

“The cottony man, of course,” Ethel said, 
with a sniff of disgust. 

“He of Miltonic weight and complete- 
ness?” 

“According to Helen and India — yes.” 

“I’ll wager that of all Ethel has heard of 
cotton, she is still ignorant of the price of the 
fleecy staple,” Helen Savage said banteringly. 

“Don’t Ethel know that yesterday Decem- 
ber cotton went down five points more?” cried 
that persistent cotton-hater. 

“What is a point in cotton — not cards?” 
asked India. 

“Bless your beautiful heart, honey, you 
don’t catch me napping — on cotton. A ‘point’ 


MAGNOLIAS ALBOOM. 


247 


represents one cent. One hundred points 
means one hundred cents — equals one very large 
round dollar,” Ethel said, slowly. 

“Correct!” called Helen Savage. 

“I declare I I didn’t know that,” con- 
fessed Miss Dupont. 

“It isn’t your fruit, Marie, that your papa 
is a lawyer instead of an unhappy cotton 
broker. If you had heard the heart-rending 
sighs with which a single ‘point’ comes tumb- 
ling, as I have been regaled every day for 
months, you would all know about this miser- 
able cotton business. Papa is full of it, and 
never fails to bring all the lowest ‘points’ home 
for dinner every blessed evening. To add in- 
sult to injury, Mr. Dick Edwards comes in 
with more ‘points,’ and — always below. I de- 
test cotton and cottony men !” 

A merciful lull in the excruciating conver- 
sation in the curtained alcove, and in another 
moment the golden head and perfect, flower- 
like face of Nathalie De Barrios filled, like a 
glimpse of heaven, the parting in the curtains. 

I looked up — she was gone. 

“Oh, girls ! He is right there — he has heard 
every word,” in a stage whisper. 

“A lovely ‘kettle’ o’ fish I” from India. 

“Qh, Ethel, think of all you’ve said !” 

“And weep,” suggested Nathalie. 

“Well, girls, what is said is said,” Ethel 
remarked reflectively, “and I can’t unsa}" it. 


248 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


At any rate I said no harm, if he did listen!’ , 

“You didn’t say he was cottony ! Oh, no!” 
Marie observed, mischieviously. 

“Nor that ‘when he died he would g-o to 
cotton,’ no indeed?” 

“You need not g-uy me. I had as lief go 
out and tell him more of himself.” 

“Don’t over-rate your streng*th, Ethel.” 

“Strength ?” 

“Yes, strength, courage.” 

“India, do you deem me so weak?” 

“You wouldn’t dare.” 

“Wouldn’t I?” 

In another moment Miss Ethel Staunton, 
blushing and hesitating, stood before me. 

“I regret that you heard my remarks about 
you, Mr. Edwards,” she said, “but you don’t 
know how I /laie — cotton !” 

“And ‘cottony men,’ ” I added. 

“I don’t take a word back,” she said, 
stiffly, “but I wouldn’t wound your feelings 
for the world. You know I wouldn’t, don’t 
you, Mr. Dick ?” 

“How about the ‘stick,’ ‘tongs’ and ‘rag 
doll,’ Miss Ethel ?” 

She had disappeared before I finished. 

“I believe Helen knew he was there all the 
time,” India laughed. 

“Even when she fought for his ‘booky’ 
reputation ?” from Marie Dupont. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


249 


“That is not kind. Helen did not know. 
Did you, dear?” asked Nathalie. 

“I should have said nothing* had I known.” 
Helen’s voice had a ting*e of resentment. 

“You feel relieved since you ate ‘humble 
pie,’ Ethel? What is now your opinion of Mr. 
Edwards?” 

“Too cottony by half.” 

A suppressed giggle reached me. 

The knowledge that I had been “picked to 
pieces,” that I, plain Dick Edwards, was the 
victim of the unblushing remarks of that most 
gracious and beautiful bevy in the alcove. To 
say the least, the knowledge was a stunning 
blow. 

Since my days of school life were over I 
had been a strictly business man, had gone 
very little into society, and now I forgot Helen 
Savage’s kind defense in the conviction, that, 
by the majority I was declared “cottony” and 
“a stick.” Even an inanimate rag doll was 
preferred to the society of Richard Edwards, 
Esquire, cotton broker. 

My father had, years ago, established the 
house, and on his retirement from business, his 
mantle had fallen upon my shoulders ; there- 
fore, business, commercial and otherwise, had 
for ages claimed my closest attention. 

My father had educated me liberally, then 
bade me follow in his footsteps, and, as a happy 


250 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


venture in cotton had miraculously enriched us, 
I still stuck to the cotton bale. Thoug-h not 
yet thirty years of age, I was already a plod- 
ding business man, and that most deplorable of 
creatures — a bachelor. I again made an effort 
to get out of earshot and India L/eland stood 
before me. 

“Come into our retreat and rest, Mr. 
Dick,” she said, holding back the curtain. 

Peeling very desperate, I arose. 

“ ‘Come into the garden, Maude,’ ” Ethel 
softly sang. 

“What are you all in here for?” I asked, 
when I stood within beauty’s bower. 

“We fled the wrath of persistent dancers. 
We were too tired even to flirt when we sought 
this oasis,” Nathalie said. 

“But not too tired to gossip?” I asked, 
looking at Ethel’s flushed face. 

“Or to discuss the price of cotton?” 

“Look out, Mr. Dick, you will find your- 
self put out if you say unparliamentary things. 
We will ‘lay you on the table’ in two minutes. 
Won’t we, girls?” Ethel said with bravado. 

“Isn’t it nice in here — ‘far from the mad- 
ding crowd?’ ” Nathalie said, prettily, touch- 
ing my arm with her feather-tipped fan. 

“Very nice,” I agreed. 

At last, on the verge of some desperate 
act, I made my escape, and walked rapidly 
homeward. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


251 


Strange, but I resented the epithets be- 
stowed upon me. 

"" Cottony r' 

I repeated the word aloud in the solitude 
of my library. 

""Cottony 

Somehow I did not see the funny side of 
the newly-coined word, as I enjoyed it when it 
first came to me from the alcove earlier in the 
evening. 

I knew I was not an object of interest, or 
a fascinating person to ladies, for I was awk- 
ward and reserved ; but that fact had never 
troubled me. I enjoyed the liberty of my un- 
trammeled life. My cigars, books, papers and 
easy chair were far more entertaining than the 
dear girls could ever be. 

""Cottony!'^ I repeated again as I pushed 
the evening paper aside and lighted a cigar. 

""Cottony/'^ 

Come to think of it, I had discussed the 
deplorably low price of cotton with a friend at 
dinner a few days before, and that frivolous 
lily of the fields, Ethel Staunton, didn’t like it. 

I am not a vindictive man nor do I hold my 
memory “a row of hooks upon which to hang 
grudges,” but then and there with one hand 
upon Kingsley’s “Hypatia,” I vowed a vow. 

Miss Ethel Staunton should regret, if not 
recall, her absurd word “cottony” as applied 
to Richard Edwards, Esquire, Cotton Broker. 


252 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


My household consisted of my maiden aunt, 
Prudence, and myself, with those necessary, 
comfortable troubles — old family servants. My 
aunt was a quiet, pleasant woman much g-iven 
to church and charity work. It had been for 
years her fondest hope that I should marry a 
“sensible woman,” and bring her into our 
beautiful, though lonely, home. 

Helen Savage was a great favorite with 
my aunt, indeed, she had often asserted that 
^ ‘Helen was the only sensible girl in town.” I 
grieve to state that my aunt sometimes lectured 
me, and when she came into my study that 
night, I saw from her face that some impor- 
tant question had aroused her. 

“I do you no injustice, Dick” she began, 
“when I say that you are blinder than a whole 
regiment of moles or a barnfull of bats.” 

“Well, what now?” I inquired. 

“It has been a mystery all my life why 
men will pass by the most sensible of women 
without a thought of their excellent, home- 
making qualities and ‘take for the having and 
have for the taking’ the soft, giggling carica- 
tures of womanhood to call by the sacred name 
of wife.” 

I smoked in silence. As I before mentioned, 
my Aunt Prudence was an old maid. 

“Maybe,” she continued, “it is as Dr. 
Johnson says.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


253 


“What did he say ?“ I meekly asked. 

“Just this, ‘Men know that women are an 
over-match for them ; therefore they choose the 
weakest and most ignorant.’ ” 

My aunt laughed softly as she finished, 
evidently finding much comfort in the quota- 
tion. 

Psychical research is every day developing 
new curiosities and startling truths of mind 
and spirit, and the science was surely estab- 
lishing itself in our house. Aunt Prudence 
read me perfectly, and I in turn understood 
her. She approved of Helen Savage, and as 
heartily disapproved of my now-and-then at- 
tention to pretty Ethel. 

“Dick,” she again addressed me. 

“Where were you Thursday evening ?” 

“At the opera.” 

“Alone?” 

“Oh, no, I went with Miss Staunton.” 

“Dick Edwards ! Ethel Staunton ! A poor, 
frivolous little butterfly! My poor, silly boy! 
What manner of man are you, Dick?” 

Without awaiting a solution to her pathetic 
and curious question, she asked another. 

“Are you going down to that merry-mak- 
tomorrow ?” 

“I hadn’t thought of it,” I replied. 

“I want you to take Helen Savage and 
contradict the opinion your going with Ethel 
must have made upon sensible people.” 


254 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


“Very well.” 

“You will go with Helen? The boat 
leaves at nine.” 

“All right,” I said, smiling. “I will be 
on hand.” 

“With Helen Savage?” 

“With Helen Savage,” I asserted as she 
left the room. 

I leaned back in my chair, lighted a third 
cigar, experiencing a feeling of relief in being 
alone ; but my congratulations were of short 
duration, for in walked my old nurse without 
ceremony. 

‘ ‘Good evening. Mammy, ” was my greeting. 

“Tollerable, Maws Dick. Whotcher doin’ 
sottin’ up yere des wid yer po’ lone se’f ?” she 
asked, dropping in a heap on the hearthrug. 
“Jes a sottin’ yere in disher lonesum cawnder 
’dout nobody f’ t’ be a talkin’ wid. Sottin’ 
yere, bress Gawd, same’s dayn’t nair ’oman in 
de worl’. Whyntcher gitcher a wife, mon?” 

“The girls don’t like me. Mammy.” 

“Um-um-um. I lay ’tain’t nar one dar t’ 
tell yer Mammy dat onposslble tale. De ’om’n 
what de g-o-o-d L-a-w-d done make f’ Mr. Dick 
Ed’ards is — is, / knows,” she said with a wise 
look on her black face. 

“Who is she ?” 

“De fus’ letter in dat ’om’ns name is 
Miss’ellen Sabage, dat’s de letter. ’Pear lak 
yer smawt nuf t’ guess de res’. ” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


255 


“I am ^oing’ down the river with her to- 
morrow.” 

“Praise de g-o-o-d L-a-w-d ! Son, yer go 
wid Miss’ellen and yer ax her, too. Bettern be 
gwine t’ baid now, rooster done crowed f’ mid- 
night,” and with this last piece of information, 
she left me. 

The next morning dawned beautifully clear, 
for which I felt grateful. A picnic excursion 
is to me always a bore, even in fine weather, 
and I half regretted my promise of the night 
before. 

At last the time for leaving came, and as I 
stood on the upper deck of the boat with Helen 
Savage, I felt that I would gladly have ex- 
changed places, for the day, with any criminal 
behind the bars. By this time the black smoke 
had begun to roll out of the great smoke-stacks 
mingled with fiery sparks. A moment later 
the captain made his appearance on the forward 
part of the steamer’s deck, and, grasping the 
bell cord gave it a few vigorous jerks. As 
the great bell swung to and fro with a sonorous 
clang, the mate ordered the lines let go and the 
stage hauled on board. 

I noticed everything particularly, though 
did not feel interested. I saw the pilot from 
his little cabin above, signaled with a smaller 
bell to the engineer, and the wheels spun 
’round. With a roar and hiss of steam the 


256 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


great paddle wheels began to revolve, and the 
boat moved out into the current, making huge 
waves on either side, and leaving a path of foam 
behind. 

“There are two sick ladies and one cripple 
on board,” I heard India Leland say ; she was 
behind the “Texas.” 

“Ethels there are hundreds of cotton bales 
below, aren’t you glad?” Nathalie de Barrios 
cried. 

“Ah ! Oh ! Girls, here is Mr. Edwards.” 

“I don’t believe you,” I heard Ethel say. 

“No matter, he is here with Helen 
Savage.” 

“Well, I guess he is following that cotton. 
A very natural thing for him to do — he is so 
very cottony.” 

“Let’s go below,” Helen said, her face 
aflame. 

We were conversing very pleasantly about 
Marie Correlli’s wonderful books, when we 
heard the cry of fire from below. The party 
were still on deck, and, besides ourselves, 
three invalids occupied the salon. 

All was hurry and confusion, and when I 
went out on the guards, I saw that one side of 
the boat was enveloped in flames. 

Running to the other side, I saw two boats 
had been lowered, and in one sat Helen Sav- 
age, serene as usual. The boats were filling 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


257 


rapidly with our picnic party, when Ethel ap- 
peared, bearing- in her arms the crippled 
woman, who was safely handed into a boat. 
The two invalids were in the first and largest 
boat. Each was crowded and could take no 
more aboard when they pushed off from the 
burning- steamer. 

“What are you g-oing- to do, Mr. Edwards? 
Try a cotton bale?” Ethel asked, hysterically. 
I was startled, shocked. 

“I thought you had gone. Why did you 
not ?” I asked, sharply. 

“That poor woman cried so pitifully, J 
forgot to go. It’s pretty warm here.” 

And so it was. The fire was everywhere 
now, and the heat intense. 

“Everybody seems to take to cotton,” 
Ethel said, as the men forsook the burning 
boat. She winked the tears bravely back and 
asked : 

“Shall we try it, Mr. Dick?” 

I was waiting for this proposition, and 
when I had her very unsafely seated upon a 
rocking, swaying bale of cotton and swam be- 
side her, I thought her very subdued and digni- 
fied. 

“Oh, I almost fell over into the water!” 
she cried, when the bale gave an unusual lurch. 

“Do look, Mr. Dick. There’s a baldheaded 


17 


258 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


man just ahead. Don’t he look too funny with 
his head popping* up and down in the water?” 

There is a time to laug'h and a time to 
weep, and this was the day for lamentations, 
and I told her so. ' 

She was silent a moment, then said, very 
sweetly : 

“Mr. Dick, I have no rig*ht to give you so 
much trouble, but I forgot — ” 

“I understand,” I replied. “Here are more 
boats, or rather the same boats.” 

“Do you think my little old woman is 
safe?” 

“They are all on shore and have sent the 
boats back,” I answered, impatiently. 

Now came the tug of war ; but after many 
efforts I at last conveyed Miss Staunton from 
her risky seat upon the half-submerged bale of 
cotton to the boat.> 

“Oh, Mr. Dick !” she cried, looking around, 
“The river is full of cotton bales, and not 
going up, either.” She pointed to where the 
ungainly bales were going down stream. “I 
always hated cotton.” 

“But for our friendly bale, you might have 
been drowned,” I said, maliciously. 

“You are in a horrid temper, Mr. Dick, 
while I am feeling so grateful to you,” she 
said, repentantly, when we were again ashore. 

“And it was so selfish in me to have been 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


259 


SO careless — to have g’ivenyou so much trouble. 
Why, Mr. Dick ! You are right wet^ — fairly 
drenched !” 

“You forget,’’ I said, sternly, “that I have 
been in the river an hour and a half.” 

“And for me! It was all my fault ! I’m 
so sorry. I will tell you what I’ll do, Mr. 
Dick, I’ll ‘take back ’ all I said about cotton 
and — ” 

“ ‘Cottony men ?’ ” 

“Yes, indeed ! gladly.” 

“And ‘sticks’ and ‘tongs?’” I went on 
mercilessly. 

“Y-e-s,” she stammered between a laugh 
and a sob. 

“And ‘rag dolls?’ ” 

“Everything — anything I” she cried, des- 
perately. 

“And marry the cottony man? I continued 
making a final plunge. 

“Oh, Mr. Dick! What for?” 

“Because, you sweet, unselfish child, I 
need you, I love you, Ethel.” 

“And you will forgive me for giving you 
so much trouble — for being so careless ?” 

“I forgive everything. I’m waiting, 
Ethel?” 

“Oh, Mr. Dick, you are so — ” 

“‘Cottony?’ ” 

“Oh, no, I adore cotton,” she declared. 


260 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“And cottony men?” 

""One'' she cried, running- off to where the 
others were g-rouped under a cotton shed. 

Helen Savag-e was conversing as pleasantly 
as if nothing unusual had happened. She held 
an open lunch basket upon her lap and enjoyed 
its contents. 

“Why, Ethel ! You are all in a flutter ! 
What is the matter?” India Iceland asked. 

“Come here, dearie, and let me tell you 
what a noble unselfish girl you are,” the help- 
less woman called from her improvised seat. 

“I wish you were my daughter,” she con- 
tinued, with Ethel’s hands in hers. “What a 
dear loving wife she will make for some 
lucky man.” 

“Ethel is a very thoughtless girl. Think 
of the trouble she made for Mr. Edwards !” 
Helen Savage interposed. 

“Was I a trouble, Mr. Dick ?” Ethel asked, 
wistfully. 

“Not a bit of it.” 

“And never will be?” 

“Never,” I recklessly swore. 

“Always a joy and pleasure, Mr. Dick?” 

“Always,” I repeated, fervently. 

“Well!” exclaimed pretty Nathalie De 
Barrios, waving her fan. “That popular di- 
version begun on Olympus, and continued in 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


261 


Avernus, seems to have had rather a tempest- 
uous session on the river today.” 

“Love-making-, like death, ‘has all seasons 
for its own,’” India Leland remarked, with 
mock g-ravity. 

“Yes,” Nathalie sighed. “The old ever- 
new story continues to disturb the placidity of 
imaginative lads and lassies, and — ” 

“Yes,” India laughed. “All except Helen 
Savage. The heart-burnings that worried 
Paris and Helen of Troy, the hope of the house 
of Montague, and little Miss Capulet never 
touches our ‘sensible’ Helen.” 

Miss Savage smiled and continued lunch- 
ing soltaire. 

“But — what became of the cotton ?” Na- 
thalie suddenly asked. 

“Still going down,” Ethel laughed glee- 
fully as she turned towards the river. 

“And the ‘cottony man?’ ” 

“Hush!” Ethel whispered, “I’ve reformed 
— changed my mind, as women will.” 

“Ethel is crazy,” Marie Dupont concluded. 

“No,” snapped Helen Savage, “it’s Mr. 
Dick Edwards who is daft.” 

“Helen Savage I” from Nathalie, reproach- 
fully. 

“Savage Helen I” cried India Leland. 


262 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


AUNT BECKY AND HER 1 HANKY-BAG, 


A QUEER PICTURE they made — this 
old g-entleman, dark as ebony, tall, and 
stately, holding on to the arm of his fat, 
squat wife ; her hands were gripped around a 
small hand-bag. Southerners recognized this 
couple to be old-time plantation darkies “done 
come t’ da Ea’r.” Indeed, Uncle Sam and 
Aunt Becky themselves realized the fact that 
they were inside the gates of the White City 
and stood gazing with bulging eyes and gaping 
mouths upon its wonders. After wandering for 
hours among strange sights, whispering now 
and then to each other their respective im- 
pressions, this funny old pair entered the Mid- 
way Plaisance. Aunt Becky’s eyes brightened 
as she hastened to point her liege lord’s atten- 
tion to the African village. 

“Niggers! de pyore niggers. Sambo!’’ she 
whispered. “Um, um, uml What curi’s folks 
dey is! Jes de pyore nigger ’dout any trimmins. 
Looky!” 

“Taint nair nigger dar,” Uncle Sam as- 
serted. 

“Howkum dey’nt niggers? Lawd sabe 
yer rotten soul ! Book dar, den ! What dat f’ 
Gawd sake?” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


263 


The “pyore niggers,” with their strange 
gibberish, uncanny antics, and tattooed faces, 
made Aunt Becky put her “thanky-bag,” as 
she called her hand-satchel, under her arm and 
draw closer to Uncle Sam. 

“Maws Jack done tole me ’bout dem pock- 
pickts whar steals yer money an’ I lays dese 
air de folks. I bet a mule doe dey ain’t stealin’ 
dish yere thanky-bag what Miss Lou done gib 
Mammy!” she whispered. 

“Lawd A’mighty!” she next exclaimed; 
“who is dey. Sambo Vinegar?” 

“Afykins, jes Afykins, dat’s all dey is,” 
Uncle Sam replied with a superior air, as he 
threw one foot well in front. 

“Is dat a man-pusson er a plain varmint? 
What de creeter doin’, Sam?” whispered Aunt 
Becky, with a firmer clutch on her thanky-bag. 

“He seem mighty peacerful lak, jes settin’ 
a windin’ fread, ’pear lak,” Uncle Sam said, 
smiling upon the old man as immovable as a 
graven image. 

“Whot dem creeters doin’ dar on dat flat- 
fawm ? My breesed Lawd ! Le’s git out’n 
here, Sam,” Aunt Becky urged. 

“Jes be easy, Becky, honey, dat’s part de 
show.” 

The weird capers of a war dance, the 
noise of the drums, piping of reeds and general 


264 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


pandemonium of Africans upon the platform 
was bad for Aunt Becky’s nerves. 

“I tell yer, Sam Vinegar, I gwine quit 
here ! I is done plum dumflustercated, gotty 
bad backache, gotty fluttermercation o’ de 
hawt ’sides a ketch in my side, I is dat !” 

Poor old soul ! she trembled and gasped, 
and her black face grew ashen for sheer fright. 

“Look ’t me, Becky, honey — see me chat 
wid de gemm’n f’om Afyky.” 

“Les git, Sam,” pleaded Aunt Becky. 

“All right,” and Uncle Sam led her away. 

“Jes’ look dar, honey. Ain’t dem curi’s 
li’l’ mules, de curi’s li’l’ mules yer eber did 
see.” Uncle Sam poked a donkey in the side. 

“Hit’s daid.” 

“No hit ain’t daid, eber see a mule daid on 
hit’s feets?” Uncle Sam gave another punch. 

“I spec’ I hate t’ ’pen’ on one o’ dem mules 
f’ a crap — laigs too li’l’ an’ weakly, look curi’s. 
Whar all dese folks es lib at when dey’s home. 
Sambo?” 

“Jes’ wait till I talks wid dis gemm’n.” 

Uncle Sam approached a son of the desert 
and, dofl&ng his hat, said in his most happy 
manner : 

“I’se proud t’ see yer, suh ; pow’ful gre’t 
show, nebber seed sich a pyeart crowd ’fo’ in 
my life. I tell yer, suh, I’se bin ’roun’ some, 
but by Gawge, suh, I nebber did see sich a 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


265 


sight o’ folks in all my bawn days. No, sab, 
hit’s a plum cur’osutty, suh.” 

“The Soudanese stared stolidly into space. 

“He’s deaf,” said a mischievous looker-on. 

“He does not understand your language, 
uncle,” a lady said as she passed. 

“Isay, Mister,” Uncle Sam shouted, “is 
yer deef ?” 

“No reply except the sphinx-like stare. 

“Dat feller ’spec’ I’se a hoodoo nigger, 
Becky.” 

Then a happy thought came to Uncle Sam. 

“My entitlements is Sambo Vinegar, suh, 
I wos bawn in Nawfawk, Ferginny, suh, an’ I 
bin t’ Nyawleen’s too, suh. Now, how’s yer 
copperosity segashuatin’ ? Whar’s de place 
whar yer libs at when yers at home?” Uncle 
Sam yelled with another bow and flourish of 
his hat. 

“Well,” he exclaimed, turning with a quiz- 
zical smile to the crowd he had attracted, “dat 
sho’ do beat Bob Tail an’ he beat de debble.” 

“Gawd knows yer beller loud nuf t’ skeer 
a daid hawse — beller same’s a allygater,” Aunt 
Becky remarked, with her nose in the air. 

The stolid son of the east still gazed — si- 
lently dreaming, mayhap, of the City of the 
Sun, the grateful shadow of an obelisk or the 
Sacred River. 

“I ain’t gwine fool ’way no mo’ my time 


266 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


on sich onry oncomsponserble trash. I said ’t 
fus’ dey ’n’t no nig-gers. Ain’t I say dat wo’d, 
Becky?” Uncle Sam asked, vaguely hoping for 
an “I-told-you-so.” 

‘‘Yas, but den, dey is de pyore niggers, 
dat’s de Gawd’s trufe,” Aunt Becky insisted. 

‘‘They are Egyptians, Auntie,” a pleasant- 
faced lady said. 

‘‘What’s dat ?” 

“People who live in Egypt.” 

“Whar’s dat at, honey?” 

“Don’t you know it was in Egypt that the 
childred of Israel ” 

“Lawd sabe me! yes, honey. Whar’s 
Mosis, chile? Show ’im t’ me quick, honey.” 

“Moses didn’t come.” 

“I lay if ole Mosis had a know’d whot a 
big thing dish yere Ea’r is he wouldn’t a missed 
hit f’ nuffin. Honey, is dat ongodly ejit dar a 
shonuff Gypsum?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

Aunt Becky moved nearer the woman in 
gray, drawn by a feeling of kinship. 

“Honey, is yer come f’om Arkinsaw?” 

“Yes; why?” 

“Yer ain’t nair widder’om’n, is yer, honey?” 

“No, indeed.” 

“I ’lowed as yer didn’t look pyeart ‘nuf f’ 
a widdero’m’n, an’ den I sees yer ain’t frisky 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


267 


nuf, needer, f’ a widder’om’n. Honey, is yer 
may’d ?” 

“Yes, I am married.” 

“Yer come f’m Arkinsaw, too?” Aunt 
Becky fairly beamed upon the little woman in 
g-ray. 

“Honey, dis ole nig-ger lady come f’m dar, 
too, and hit take ole Becky Vineg’ar jes one 
gflimp’ o’ de eye t’ know a quality lady f’m 
white trash when she sot her eye on her de fus’ 
time. Yes, honey, me an’ ole Sam come way 
f’m Arkinsaw, an’ I’m blest ef I know’d dey 
wos dis many folks in de wor’l — much lessen in 
Hebb’n. Honey, yer’s a mighty likely gal ; 
looks sorter lak Miss Lou’s gals. Miss Lou 
she’s my young mistis, an’ hit’s her gals whot 
I tellin’ ’bout. Yer see, honey,” here Aunt 
Becky laid a loving hand on the g'ray sleeve, 
“we’se de quality, we is. My ole Sambo’s 
done bin eberywhar yer kin name ; done bin’ 
an’ bin’ an’ bin’, till tain’t no tellin’ whar dat 
nigger ain’t bin ter. We’s a stayin’ now wid 
Sam’s fus’ wife’s cousin, whot’s name Miss 
Mandy Wilkins. Huh!” she grunted, “’tain’t 
noboddy pestered ’bout gittin’ may’d in She- 
kawgy. ’Pears lak Mis’ Mandy Wilkins got 
de fo’fe man now, an’ she’s jes’ a nigger. Dey 
tell me, here her voice sunk to a whisper, “dey 
tells me hit ain’t no mo’ trubble gitnin’ on- 
hitched dan hitched in dishyere Shekawgy. 


268 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


White folks cawntinually gittin’ may’d an’ den 
g-ittin’ onmay’d. Sam he ses so. Wonner 
whar dat fool nigg-er? I sees him now.” 

Aunt Becky kept an eye out for Uncle 
Sam, and continued the family history. 

“Miss Uou, she think a power o’ me an’ 
Sam. Yer see, honey, dis is de upshot ob hit 
all. I nussed Miss Lou when she’s a tinchy 
li’l’ baby>gal, an’ Sam, he tuck keer o’ Maws 
Jam — dat’s Miss Lou’s pappy — when he was 
mortally shot indurin’ o’ de war.” 

But Aunt Becky don’t tell of how, when 
the war was over. Uncle Sam worked harder 
for Mistis than when he was a slave, nor of her 
own toil in rearing a house full of little ones. 
Maws Jam’s death and the fortunes of war 
left so dependent. Uncle Sam was a peculiar 
character. He had lived an uneventful life and 
had once traveled with his master from Norfolk, 
Va., by way of New Orleans, to an Arkansaw 
plantation. 

He was a loquacious, pleasant-faced, old 
man, uniformly polite and kind, and his round, 
black countenance shown with good-will to all. 

The first twenty years of his life was 
spent on a cotton plantation in south Arkan- 
saw. During the war. Uncle Sam, with hun- 
dreds of other slaves, was impressed into ser- 
vice by the Confederate government, and 
marched to Shreveport, La., and put on duty. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


269 


From this post he deserted and joined the 
Union forces under Gen. Banks, at Alexandria. 
A few weeks later he was destined to nurse his 
Confederate master in a federal hospital. 
Wounded unto death and a prisoner of war, the 
master breathed his last in Sambo’s strong, 
young arms, dimly conscious of the tears of his 
slave upon his stiffening features. After the 
war Uncle Sam drifted back to the old home 
and nobly bore his part for “Mistis ’n’ de 
chillen.” 

“Have you had a pleasant stay in Chi- 
cago ?” asked the woman in gray, so pleased 
was she to find “Miss Lou’s’ faithful mammy.” 

“Um, um, um, yas’m, I spec we is. Miss 
Mandy Wilkin’s mighty nice, an’ simmiliar, but 
doe de eatin’ don’t set wid me, somehow ruther 
I ain’t seed nuff hawg meat t’ suit my tas’e. I 
is a mighty han’ f’ hawg ’n’ homily. Lawd, 
honey, I ain’t seed nair pot o’ bacon an’ greens 
sence her’ I bin, an’ we come las’ Chewsd’y. 
Ef I could get a cup o’ butter-milk, I could 
sorter make out.” 

“How did you happen to come !” 

“Well, it’s dish-a-way, honey ; Miss Lou 
done gone t’ Calyforny t’ see her gals what’s 
may’d out dar, and Maws Jack, dat’s Miss 
Lou’s boy what libs in Li’l Rock, he whirl in 
an’ say : ‘Mammy, is yer an’ daiddy wantin’ 
t’ be gwine t’ de Worl’ F’ar ’t Shekawgy ?’ an’ 


270 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


den he tu’ns in and up an’ buy us de tickets to 
go an’ come home, too ; den Maws Jack laffs an’ 
say : ‘Spec my ole mammy lak some spondu- 
lik’s’ — Maws Jack mig-hty deblish — an’ din he 
g-ib Sambo some money an’ he put lots ob hit 
in my thanky-bag* an’ say: ‘Don’t lose yer 
money, mammy, an’ look out f’ dem pock- 
pickits’ Yes’m, dat whot Maws Jack say. 
You ner dat nigger Sam gwine off ’dout me? 
I has t’ keep up wid Sam, honey ; folks git on- 
hitched powerful easy here in Shekawgy, dey 
tells me. Far’well, dawder ; yee’s a mighty 
likely white ’om’n.” 

The woman in gray smiled at the honest 
face, and, as she strolled away, the memory of 
Aunt Becky’s words brought tears with the 
smiles ; for only those who have known the 
affection of a black mammy, can understand or 
appreciate the generous and often self-sacrific- 
ing loyalty of this old-time blessing. 

Later, while conversing with a friend, the 
woman in gray was seized by the shoulder, 
turned around to see — Aunt Becky in tears. 

Why ! What’s the matter, Auntie ?” 

“Lawd, honey. Boo-boo-boo! I done — 
boo, los’, boo. Sambo — an’ wusser’n dat — Boo- 
ooo ! done los’ my thanky-bag — what — boo-oo 
Miss Lou done gib me. I was jes’ a lookin’ at 
dat curi’s Injunny man whot gotty dugout done 
growd ’roun’ he’s wais’ when I los’ — boo — I 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


271 


los’ ole Sam an’ dat thanky-bag* what Miss 
Lou done gib her po’ ole — boo — Mammy — wid 
all dem fo’ bitses whot Maws Jack done gimme, 
too !” 

“Oh, never mind, we’ll find it; don’t cry. 
Auntie,” the woman in gray said sympathet- 
ically. 

“I ain’t nebber ’spec’n t’ see dat thanky- 
bag what Miss Lou — boo — boo — boo,” she blub- 
bered, “no mo’, my Lawd an’ Mawster ! no 
mo’,” she sobbed now hysterically. 

“Oh, yes you will, don’t cry.” 

“No mo’, my Lawd, no mo’,” like the wail 
of a lost soul. 

“Yes, you will. Come, let’s look for it.” 

“Lawd A’mighty! honey, deys sich a on- 
godly chance o’ folks here — boo — boo. Worsh 
I’d a stayed at home — worshed I was ’t home 
dis minit a feedin’ dem plume o’ de rock chickins 
— boo — worsh I was done drapt daid !” 

“There is your husband, and he has your 
satchel. See?” cried the woman in gray. 

Praise de good Lawd!” Aunt Becky 
shouted, as she rushed forward and seized the 
thanky-bag. ‘Gillory! Gillory t’ de Lam’ ! 
Sambo Vinegar, is yer had yer black paw in 
dis yere thanky-bag ?” Say, ole man ?” 

“No!” roared Uncle Sam. “But let me 
tell yer, Becky, I’s a ole man. I bin here an’ I 
bin dar an’ seed all sawts o’ folks ; but ob all 


272 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


de oncomsponserble ’oman I eber did see, you 
sho’ do tek de cake, an’ diskyere las’ caper do 
sho’ tek de rag off’n de bush, hit do f’ a fac ’!’ 

“Nebber min’, Sam, honey, doncher say 
nair wo’d. Les’ go an’ skeer up a watter- 
million somewhar. Niggers mighty ban’s f’ 
millions — come nigh’s possum an’ taters a 
suitin’ dishyere nigger lady’s taste.” 

And they went their way. 



MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


273 


THE CAMP ON FREO. 


I T WAS an afternoon of slumbrous sweet- 
ness in the heart of sunny June. The 
sound of the wood-chopper’s axes ran^ har- 
moniously clear, and the tumbling melody of 
the swift flowing creek chanted a drowsy mur- 
mur through the ever-stirring leaves. Little 
need was there for the old-fashioned clock in 
the cabin in the clearing, for appetite dictated 
the time for meals. 

There was quite a little settlement in the 
woods, for, after having their crops and fences 
twice swept away by both the May and June 
“rises,” the farmers in Canaan could do noth- 
ing else save cut logs for saw mills to keep the 
wolf away. Down among the cypresses and 
pines great gnarled and moss-grown oaks with 
a tangle of canebrake and wild-flowers, mixed 
in delicious confusion with rattan, bamboo, yel- 
low jasmine and woodbine that leaned over the 
water to admire its reflected beauty. Here 
were the Canaanites in camp and cabin, living 
as best they could. No one complained ; in- 
deed, each was grateful to find a way out of 
the disasters of the flood. 


18 


74 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


Sister Evans was the first to move, then 
came Sisters Beard and Amos — each family 
comfortably domiciled in camp or cabin. With 
her usual g-ood nature, Sister Amos was in- 
clined to view the whole as a joke, “jest plum 
like a big camp meetin’,” she confided to Sister 
Beard. Sister Mackey brought her spinning 
wheel, “so’s pap needn’t git bar’ f’ socks f’ 
want o’ a little knittin’ thread.” 

When the camp fire faded and left nothing 
of its glories but a bed of red and black coals, 
the women sat in its wavering glow and talked. 
All enjoyed the novelty, and when the moon 
rose orange-colored from behind the big trees, 
and scattered its sheen of light over the creek, 
the cabins and dense forest. Sister Broadnax 
declared she “had never hoped to see anything 
in Arkansaw so beautiful.” 

“Ef ye’re talkin’ ’bout moonshine, yer jes’ 
oughter see the Georgy moon. This moon way 
out here don’t know the fust princerples o’ 
shinin’,” Sister Mackey said, with her nose full 
of tobacco smoke. 

The monotony of the days was never tire- 
some, for Sister Mackey spun “truck f’ pap’s 
socks.” Sister Evans “pieced” quilts, while 
Sisters Amos and Broadnax went fishing — lis- 
tening with attentive ears to nature’s many 
voices as they rambled up or down the creek. 
Sister Beard, too, was fond of the woods, and 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


275 


often spent hours searching for her favorite 
wood-violets among the ferns, now and then 
singing snatches of her old time hymns or re- 
peating to her gathered flowers half-whispered 
words of admiration and appreciation. The 
larger part of every life is an open page, we 
are constantly making involuntary revelations 
of our characters, and Sister Beard showed her 
sweet, simple faith in every act of her life. 

“Ain’t Sister Beard the best woman in 
Canaan ?” Sister Evans asked Sister Broadnax, 
as they sat on the bank of Freo creek, waiting 
for a bite from the artful dodgers in the muddy 
water. 

So good. Sometimes I think I never knew 
as pure a woman. ‘Of such is the kingdom,’ ” 
quoted Sister Brodnax. 

“I call that big luck ! Look what a big 
shiny feller!” Sister Amos exclaimed, casting 
a fine speckled perch within an uncomfortable 
nearness to Sister Brodnax’s nose just as she 
landed a big “cat.” 

“Havin’ any luck?” Sister Mackey’s rasp- 
ing voice called from the bushes back of them. 

“The wind blows too much f’ good fishin’,” 
Sister Amos remarked, remorselessly, baiting 
her hook with a squirming worm. 

“Hit would be jes’ plum awful t’ have a 
harry kin light down on us in this ’ere timber,” 
Sister Mackey remarked, carefully brushing off 


276 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


a log with her apron before seating herself. 
The blue-and-white-knitting was held affec- 
tionately to her bosom, and the round fat ball 
of thread reposed in her apron pocket. “I 
ain’t seed a sho’nough generwine river ner 
creek since I lef’ Georgy. Them’s what yer 
mought call rivers thar. There’s the Chatty- 
hoochy — I seed hit ’t C’lumbus — an’ ergin, 
thar’s — great King David !” Sister Mackey 
jumped with surprising agility from the log, a 
tiny snake wriggled close to her elbow, as she 
meditatively ga2;ed across the creek, smoking 
her pipe, and living again in “Georgy.” “Yer 
sass}^ varmint ! A lickin’ out yer tongue t’ yer 
betters. I ain’t no sorter doctor.” She threw 
a stick in the direction of the snake and struck 
Sister Amos’ sunbonnet. 

“Tain’t nothin’ but a gyarter snake, no- 
how,” Sister Amos said, as she arose. 

“Let’s go, the wind is too strong,” Sister 
Brodnax suggested, “we have enough for din- 
ner, haven’t we ?” 

“ ’Tain’t much in this worl’ I’m skeered 
of,” Sister Mackey remarked, when they were 
walking toward the camp ; “but I’ll tell yer, a 
stawm in this timber ’d be jes’ plum pitterful. 
Yer hear me !” 

“I ain’t never seed a stawm,” Sister Amos 
remarked. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


277 


“Well, we useter have ’em inGeorg-y — fus’ 
class harrykins — Lawd-a-massy ! Hit’s jes’ 
tarryfyin’.’’ 

“Were you ever in one ?” 

“Not aigsackly smack-dab in a harrykin, 
but jes’ b’low papy’s hit blow’d scan’lus. Ole 
Sister Grubbs, what lived in thar aige o’ our 
settlement, told my pappy es how that harry- 
kin jes’ nachelly turned her big" washpot inside 
out.’’ 

“Woo-oo-e-e !’, cried Sister Amos, “that’s 
the big’g'est one you ever did tell. Sister 
Mackey!” 

“La, Sister Mackey! What a whopper!” 

“Well, yer can name it es yer please. Sis- 
ter Grubbs was a chu’ch ’oman, an’ nobody 
could come in a mile o’ her a prayin’ an’ sing*in’ 
an’ talkin’ t’ ther mourners’ meetin’ times, an’, 
when they come th’oo. Sister Grubbs was ther 
fus’ man t’ rise an’ he’p ’em shout an’ caper 
’roun’. Yes, sir, that washpot was sholy in- 
side out, f’ faffy seed it'' 

“That’s wonderful. What did he say 
about it?” Sister Brodnax asked, with a smile. 

“Well, pappy he ’low’d hit was a pow’ful 
curi’s thing-. Hit made the pot mig-hty ill-con- 
venient, with ther years and laig-s on ther in- 
side ther pot.” 

“Gre’t Simon Peter !” Sister Evans cried. 
“Sister Mackey, let up ! Let up !” 


278 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“I worsh I may drap plum daid in my 
tracks ef it ain’t so !” Sister Mackey said, 
waving “pap’s ^ock’’ excitedly. 

‘ ‘ That worshpot was inside out — the laig‘s 
an" t her years a-pof>f in' up inside ther pot with 
a plum nachel look to efnl'^ 

“Thar’s our men folks done come. I bet 
a mule my brade’s done burnt up to a coal.” 
Sister Amos hastened forward. 

“Yer brade’s all right, Tildy, go an’ fix 
Dick’s dinner,” Sister Beard advised. 

“Gre’t King David ! What’s yer meanin,’ 
pap? Go right straight in that house an’ 
shuck them new britches, quick !” Sister 
Mackey commanded, with energy. 

“A-puttin’ on yer Sunday britches here in 
the middle o’ ther week ! Ther ain’t nair soul 
here what keers a cent ’bout yer britches. Go 
put on them yeller jeans, whot yer been 
a-w’arin’.” 

Poor old Pap ! He looked down upon his 
blue-clad spindles in uncertain misery. To go 
or not to go was the question, and when he 
glanced at the pity in Sister Broadnax’s brown 
^es — caught a compassionate sympathy from 
Sister Beard’s eyes of faded blue, he decided 
the majority should rule; he would keep his 
blue trousers on. 

A mischievous twinkle in Sister Amos’ 
wide-awake face, as she stood near her broad- 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


279 


shouldered hero, half warned him, and a fleet- 
ing-, frightened look at the gaunt figure of his 
wife, who held the ever-lasting knitting at 
half-mast, finally decided him ; he turned 
slowly and went into a cabin. All Sister 
Mackey’s training was of small avail. “Pap” 
still hugged to his craven soul an unreasonable 
conceit. A poor, self-satisfied ideality, a spe- 
cies of conceit as inherent and necessary in the 
make-up of some men as the breath of life. 
“Pap” was a poor, subdued peacock, and but 
for the careful attention given to the “cotton- 
topping” process by his grim, uncompromising 
spouse, he would never have enjoyed “meetin’,” 
and the extent of his vanity would have broken 
his heart ; for “bein’ a perfesser a-settin’ in 
the amen cawner ” in the Canaan meetin’ house 
was incompatible with “yaller jeen’s britches 
an’ them patched.” All this and more Sister 
Mackey had vainly striven to impress upon 
him, her keen insight into, and her judgments 
— untempered by mercy — upon his weak, shal- 
low character came nearer the absolute truth 
than researches in divinity, mathematics or 
medicine. 

“Don’t that take the cake?” Sister Amos 
asked her husband when Sister Mackey had 
followed “Pap” into the cabin; “I b’lieve I’ll 
try that on you, Dick,” she laughed. 

“Don’t,” he replied; “le’s have dinner.” 


280 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Look at that po’ old sheep,” Sister Amos 
whispered, when Sister Mackey led “Pap” to 
the long* table under the trees. 

“Come roun’ here. Sister Mackey, you, too, 
’Squar’,” Sister Beard called from her place at 
the other side. 

“We do fus’ trate down here. I like it — 
jes’ like a fish-fry all the time,” Sister Amos 
said, as they enjoyed the dinner of early veg’e- 
tables and fish. 

“Tildy ain’t got no mo’ sense ’n ’t have a 
good time anywhar ; jes’ nachelly thankful f’ 
nothin’,” Sister Mackey observed. 

“That’s the way t’ be,” Sister Beard 
modestly asserted. 

“Taint no sense in it.” 

“Lot’s of sense an’ mo’ satisfaction. 
Tildy’s jes’ what I want her,” declared Dick 
Amos. “I’m so plum satisfied with Tildy’s 
laughin’ ways that ever’ time I see a man with 
a still, snurly, quarrelin’ wife, I’m jes’ sorry 
f’ him an’ glad f’ myself.” 

“La, Dick, how you do run on,” Sister 
Beard said. 

“Huh !” Sister Mackey grunted, her nose 
in the air, “yer need yer cotton topped, Dick 
Amos. Sorry cause ever’ woman ain’t a fool 
like Tildy Amos ! Who ever heerd o’ sich ! I 
lay thar’s lots o’ men jes’ as sorry f ’ you havin’ 
sich a wife es Tildy.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


281 


“My wife suits me, an’ I ain’t sorry f’ 
Dick, nuther,” said Brother Evans, rising* from 
the table. 

“Sister Ivins’ mig-hty nigh es foolish es 
Tildy.’’ 

“She’s all right,” Brother Evans laughed. 

“For my part I nuver heerd o’ ^^^ybody 
bein’ sorry f’ Dick, did yer, ’Squar’?” 

“ ’Squar’ ” Mackey lifted his bullet head 
and glanced quickly at his wife. 

“Yer sorry f’ Dick Amos, ’Squar’?” 

“A^o, / aint,'' squeaked the “’Squar’,” 
watching his chance when Sister Mackey 
talked with Sister Broadnax and didn’t hear. 

After a clearing away of the table, a quiet 
rest under the trees, a lulling to sleep of the 
children, the “Sisters” again began to talk 
more generally. Sister Amos lay half asleep 
beside little Tom, but Sister Evans resumed 
her sewing, and Sister Mackey lighted that 
odorous pipe, and began an attack on “Pap’s” 
everlasting sock. 

“Some folks ain’t got no raisin’,” she said, 
with a scornful look at Sister Amos, scarcely 
realizing that she herself was lacking, and that 
she hourly proclaimed a neglect of early train- 
ing by ruthlessly ignoring the written or con- 
ceded laws of every-day life. In being cynical 
she was necessarily uncharitable and boldly 
advertised the misfortune of having been 


282 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


reared outside the pale of beauty, love and 
peace. The other women in the camp on Freo 
pitied Sister Mackey; for, 'in spite of herself, 
she told the world just what she was. There 
is, indeed, no evil lurking in the soul that does 
not leave its impress on the face, and an un- 
pleasant temper defaces the most exquisitely 
chiseled countenance. 

“Going to sleep, Tildy ?” the rasping voice 
gratad harshly. 

“Come in one of it — was jes’ a dozin’.” 

“Hit ’pears like thar’s some folk’s as don’t 
know when they’s too lazy t’ die,” 

“Oh, I’m a gettin’ well down hyar,’ ” 
laughed Sister Amos. “I’ve got no notion o’ 
’leavin’ Dick — he’d be all broke up, ’thout me,” 
with another laugh. 

“You do look better,” Sister Brodnax said 
encouragingly. 

“Tildy ’s a heap better — she’s gettin’ rale 
rosy ergin,” Sister Beard declared. 

“Didn’t know yer’d stop yer devilment 
long ’nough t’ git sick,” Sister Mackey snarled. 

“Better send her into Georgy,” Sister 
Amos telegraphed to Sister Evans. 

“I ain’t fish one minit an’ fowl the naixt. 
I’m myse’f, me! Sister Mackey!”. 

Oh, Sister Mackey ! No need of advertis- 
ing yourself. There is no balancing on a natu- 
ral pivot between right and wrong — good and 
evil. They all knew you, alas, too well. 


MAGNOLIAS ALBOOM, 


283 


“Les’ g-odownou the creek, Tildy,” Sister 
Evans proposed, carefully putting away her 
work. 

“To burn mo’ daylight?” again snarled 
that human cat known as Sister Mackey. 

“Yes,” Sister Beard said, “goon. I’ll take 
care of Tom.” 

“I nachelly love the woods, somehow I can 
git closeter t’ the Lawd down here,” Sister 
Amos confessed as she walked towards the 
creek with Sister Evans. 

“Yes, so do I, Tildy.” 

A life in the woods did bring them close to 
nature, and was restful beyond that of any 
cure or sanitarium — where artificialities, vexa- 
tions, fashions and nerves dropped away like 
snow before the sun, and all was sweet, repose- 
ful quiet. 

“I thought I’d find yer here,” came the 
unwelcome voice of Sister Mackey, as, an hour 
later, she stole into the little glen as stealthily 
as came the serpent into Eden. 

“I lay yer never had no sich trees es these 
in Georgy,” Sister Amos said, banteringly. 

Sister Mackey sank upon the grass and 
waved her knitting ; a faint little grin con- 
torted her shrewd, thin lips. She ga2;ed medita- 
tively across the creek into a tangled confusion 
of cypress knees, canes and creepers, thinking 
— thinking— thinking of that far away Beulah 
land she knew as “Georgy.” 


284 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“As a g-limpse of a burnt out' ember 
Recalls a regret of the sun,” 

SO her narrow mind held as richest treasures 
the memory of that enchanted land, and, as 
the fleeting- years added their veiling- mists, the 
memories grew more definite and precious. 

“Trees?” she asked, rousing out of her 
reverie, “these ain’t no trees, they’s saplin’s. 
Trees grows in Georgy.” 

“I ’low’d these was trees ; they’re big es 
all creation,” laughed Sister Evans. 

“How big’s Georgy trees. Sister Mackey?” 
Sister Amos gravely inquired. 

“Pappy knowed a man in ther pine Ian’s 
what had the biggest saw mill in Georgy, an’ 
hit tuck that mill six months t’ saw up one 
tree !” 

“Gre’t Simon Peter!” 

“That was a generwine tree, fer a fac’,” 
Sister Amos cried, with uplifted hands. 

“How many houses did it build?” 

“Hit built a whole town, ’sides three mills 
an’ a gin house or so. Pappy know’d a preacher 
what hilt meetin’ in ther holler of a tree, an’ 
when ther mourners wouldn’t come th’oo time 
they orter he’d jes’ snatch ’em up off’n ther 
knees an’ stick ’em up in that holler an’ smoke 
’em out same es rabbits.” 

“Whoo-oo-e^/ ” from Sister Amos. 

“What sort o’ tree was it?” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


285 


“A big* pine,” Sister Mackey calmly an- 
swered. 

“I never heerd of a holler pine — not in all 
my bawn days !” Sister Amos said. 

“Yer g*ot nothin' in Arkinsaw, Tildy ; not 
so much es folks er trees. Holler pines is com- 
mon es babies in Georgy,” and then she smoked 
that vile little pipe. 



286 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


AN INFALLIBLE RECIPE FOR GOSSIPS. 


S ister beard was “pestered.” For 
several weeks a quarrel and a scandal 
had been brewing- in Canaan, and thoug-h she 
had tried hard not to “take sides,” she felt in 
her soul a leaning- for the rig-ht, and was fear- 
ful lest she might have so expressed herself— 
if not by words, by manner — fearful that in 
her zeal a bad matter mig-ht be made worse. 
She took it terribly to heart, thought of it day 
and night until her sensitive soul became mor- 
bid on the subject ; and, as to-day was the 
appointed one to spend with Sister Evans, she 
mounted her sleek little horse and started. She 
carried a basket filled with some delicacy for 
her neighbor, and from her saddle hung a large, 
worn satchel containing her work. 

Through the rosy summer light she saw, 
as she ambled along the broad fields of green, 
dotted thickly over with vivid dashes of white 
of the opening cotton bolls and the deep ditches 
on either side of the high, straight fences, waved 
fervid green with ferns and a confusion of 
sweet, uncultured things blooming and bending 
odorously, the fresh morning air was aquiver 
with the sleepy hum of insects and carol of 
birds. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


287 


Sister Beard was “too pestered” to appre- 
ciate it all. She felt ashamed of herself. For 
two weeks she had wondered if she had said 
anything*, and had all this time borne the nerve- 
racking strain on heart and brain, and now felt 
herself giving down like a child. 

The busy days, with their monotonous 
round of duties, were easily spent ; but the 
nights were telling on her strength — the long, 
pitiless nights when she had only her forebod- 
ings for company. 

The white strip of moonlight, which car- 
peted her floor from window to door, seemed, 
to her tortured imagination, the trail of a 
great white serpent, a hissing, gossiping ser- 
pent. 

The summer-scented breeze, that had gently 
lifted the muslin curtain and stole in to comfort 
Sister Beard, failed to accomplish its mission, 
for she was “too pestered” to appreciate the 
kindness. Her quick, tender conscience was 
ever on the alert and kept a perpetual uncom- 
promising guard over her soul, for the uncul- 
tured are not so skilled in blotting out their 
own transgressions as are the more educated 
hypocrites. She found quite a little company 
assembled in Sister Evans’ large front room. 

Sister Mackey sat near a window knitting 
on the eternal blue-and-white sock ; from year 
to year that blue-and-white work never varied. 


288 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


was never finished, and Sister Mackey was 
wont to boast that “that ’ere yaller chist in 
the loft was plum’ full o’ bran new socks f’ 
pap.” She “wasn’t ’lowin’ t’ have pap t’ go 
without socks, jes’ plain, b’ar-leg’g’eddy, when 
the ole ’oman draps off.” 

Sister Brodnax was there, too, rocking and 
knitting lace for some of her numerous pets, 
for Sister Brodnax’s heart was a capacious or- 
gan and took in all the little girls in Canaan. 
Sister Amos was piecing a quilt and all were 
talking pleasantly. 

“No, ma’am, I don’t see no use,” Sister 
Amos said in reply to a criticism from Sister 
Mackey. “I never could see no use in a cuttin’ 
up caliker in sich little scrops jes’ t’ sew ’em 
together agin.” 

“Hit would be lots purtier, yer scrops is 
too big f’ a nine-patch, Tildy.” 

“Hit’s too tejis like, it is,” Sister Amos 
laughed. 

“Look, Sister Brodnax, ain’t they too big?” 
Sister Mackey persisted. 

“Why, no, not if she likes them that si^e,” 
smiling over her glasses at a dear little girl 
who leaned on her lap while taking an inventory 
of Sister Brodnax’s apron pocket. As she 
smiled lovingly on the child she thought of an- 
other pair of dewy, blue eyes closed in eternal 
sleep so many years ago — another bright, blonde 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


289 


head laid low in the graveyard clay. She 
looked indulgently upon the dirty little fist 
closed upon thimble and thread in her pocket, 
and it was the memory of another pair of 
chubby hands that made Sister Brodnax so un- 
selfishly patient with “the least of these” 
bright earth-blossoms. 

“Now,” Sister Evans said, seating her 
portly figure on a trunk, “now, we are goin’ t’ 
have a rale good day an’ not say nair word ag’in 
noboddy; ain’t we?” 

“Of course we are,’‘ Sister Brodnax 
agreed. 

“We haint nothin’ t’ say ag’in nobody, 
leastwise /ain’t,” Sister Beard remarked, her 
soul a-tremble. 

“Ef the Lawd ’ll put up with me, I 
promise t’ put up with ev’ry body else,” Sister 
Amos said, with a wink at Sister Evans. 

“Ezj f’ me'' Sister Mackey said with em- 
phasis, “ef I’ve got anything t’ say I ’spec’ t’ 
spit it out ; that’s me,, all over.” 

“But when we don’t know nothin’ t’ say 
we cain't say it; what then?” Sister Evans 
asked, descending from the trunk with a grunt. 

“Make it,” suggested the giddy Sister 
Amos, with another wink. 

“La, Tildy!” Sister Beard mildly remon- 
strated. 


19 


290 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“I know folks, not a hundred miles away, 
that can do that mighty slick. Ain’t that Puss 
Kemp a gallivantin’ off ergin? Sich a gad 
about I never seed !” Sister Mackey cried from 
the window. 

The girl on horseback turned her head, but 
said nothing, and hurried her horse along. 

“Better git Sister Mackey into Georgy ef 
yer don’t want t’ hear all that mess on po’ Puss 
ag’in,” Sister Amos whispered to Sister Evans. 

“How is your mother. Puss?” Sister Brod- 
nax called from the gallery. 

“No better, mighty po’ly — goin’ after the 
doctor now,” was the answer as she hastened 
onward. 

“Puss has a hard time,” Sister Brodnax 
said, coming back to her chair. 

“She is mother and father and everything 
else to those children at home.” 

“Whar’s Mis Kemp, I’d like to know?” 
demanded Sister Mackey with fire in her eyes. 

“La, Sister Macke}" ! Mis Kemp haint 
walked a step in mor’n a year.” 

“Laziness ?” 

“No’m ; rheumatiz,” Sister Beard respon- 
ded meekly. 

Sister Amos tittered. Sister Brodnax looked 
half amused, half reproachful, and Sister 
Beard said, with a sigh, “La, Tildy?” 

Sister Mackey glanced around the room, 
her belligerent nature firing with wrath. “I 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


291 


ain’t no Judas!” she proudly announced. 
“When I know a thing*, I’ve got the backbone 
t’ say my c’nvictions. Nobody ever seen Sister 
Mackey a whuppin’ the devil ’roun’ the stump. 
iVb, sir! An’ whot’s mo’, I know what I 
knowy 

“Better git her into Georgy, quick,” Sister 
Amos again whispered. 

“Try it,” advised Sister Evans. 

“Iva, me! This is the kusis’ color! Hit 
ain’t nuther pink-red ner-yaller buff — looks like 
’simmon beer. Ever see ’simmon beer. Sister 
Mackey?” Sister Amos innocently asked, hold- 
ing up a piece of calico. 

“Is I seed ’simmon beer? bar’ls an’ bar’ls 
of it? My pap uster make it t’ drink like 
water.” 

“She’s in Georgy — Puss Kemp’s safe,” 
Sister Amos telegraphed to Sister Evans. 
There was a mischievous twinkle in Sister 
Amos’ blue eyes when she put Sister Brodnax’s 
work, which she had pretended to examine, 
back on her lap. 

“I ain’t no Judas. Judases is the snakyis’ 
folks on the green arth. No Judas speerit in 
meP'' Sister Mackey was not so easily be- 
guiled. 

“How do they make ’simmon beer? We’ve 
got a patch o’ trees right closte t’ the gyardin 
an’ I want t’ know,” Sister Evans said : 


292 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“I’ll tell yer in time,’-’ Sister Mackey as- 
sured her. “Did yer all hear that awful tale 
’bout—” 

“Blue an’ green don’t go good side an’ side, 
does they?” Sister Amos interrupted, carefully 
matching her blocks of patchwork. 

“Lis’n ’t Tildy Amos!” Sister Mackey 
said, scornfully, “a pretendin’ t’ look ’t that 
trimmin’ o’ Sister Brodnax, an’ I bet she’s a 
sayin’ som’thin’ she had no ’scasion t’ say.” 
Sister Mackey’s high nose rose even higher as 
she sniffed a dainty morsel of the forbidden 
topic. 

“Sister Mosely had a nine-patch what was 
bigger ’n this,” Sister Amos said naively, “an’ 
hit was purty, too,” holding up a square for 
inspection. 

“That’s rale nice; looks sorter like I’sh- 
chain,” Sister Evans said, as she sat in the 
back door and “snapped” the beans, while Sis- 
ter Beard shelled green peas for dinner. 

“I’ve seen beautiful quilts made double 
Irish-chain,” Sister Brodnax remarked, think- 
ing of the good old times in Alabama. 

Sister Mackey came in from the kitchen, 
where she had lighted her pipe. 

“Did you ever see a double I’sh-chain quilt. 
Sister Mackey?” Sister Amos inquired, with 
renewed hope of “startin’ her to Georgy.” 

“Lot o’ ’em. One ole widder a livin’ nigh 
pappy’s had piles and stacks o’ bed quilts.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


293 


Sisters Amos, Evans, Beard and Brodnax 
breathed easily. Perhaps after all, the discus- 
sion of the neigfhborhood scandal might be 
averted. 

“I’ve seen the lone stair pattron,” Sister 
Amos ventured. 

“Lone stair’s common’s pig tracks; the 
Mason’s secret an’ Oddfeller’s delight is the 
purtyes’ things f’ quilts I ever clapped my eyes 
on.” Sister Mackey was now in high good 
humor. 

“Hit’s all laid work — pow’ful pertickler 
work — ev’ry stitch a-settin’ f’ hitse’f,” Sister 
Mackey said, between puffs of vile tobacco 
smoke. 

“I couldn’t begin t’ name the pattrons. 
Thar’s the moanin’ dove an’ the twin lam’s, 
an’ the goodnis knows what all. I have t’ 
laugh ever’ time I thinks ’bout quilts, f’ then I 
git to thinkin’ ’bout Mis’ Smith what lived 
back in Georgy. She had three mighty purty 
gals — Susy an’ Mary an’ Ann. Susy had two 
swee’arts in love with her at onct.” 

“How did she manage ’em?” puffing con- 
tentedly. 

“Pus’ rate. One was Josiah Tuttle, a 
long, lanky, ugly critter. He was a ex’orter 
in the church an’ come mighty nigh a preachin’, 
too, campmeetin’ times ; an’ ’t big meetin’s, 
too. Jes’ stan’ Josiah up thar ’niongst the 


294 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


mourners an’ he was a chawin’ glory from way- 
back, speshally ef Susy was a mourner.” 

‘‘What difference did that make?” Sister 
Beard was shocked. 

“Mis’ Smith didn’t take t’ Josiah an’ Susy 
did, an’ her bein’ a mourner give him a chance 
t’ talk t’ her.” 

“I declare!” exclaimed Sister Brodnax. 

“Hit’s the truth jes’ like I tell yer. Hit 
took Susy the longest time t’ come through of 
any mourner in the settlement. Hit jes’ ’peared 
like her heart was a plum’ rock, an’ black as a 
nigger with sin. Ever’body was a talkin’ it, 
that po’ Susy Smith was the hardest sinner 
that ever lived ; she was so long a-seekin’.” 

Sister Mackey’s hard, old countenance still 
were a vague, little, sick grin, and only an inti- 
mate acquaintance could have decided whether 
it was an indication of pain or pleasure. 

“Well?” Sister Brodnax said, interroga- 
tively. 

“Atter Josiah went up t’ ’Mericus t’ his 
aunt’s, Susy ’jes lit in t’ dancin’ an’ singin’ 
reels an’ goin’ t’ play-parties same’s before. 
That t’other feller had a chance then. His 
name was Sam Short, an’ f’ a joke the gals 
uster call him Short Sam ; he hauled for a liv- 
in’, er driv, er som’thin’ o’ that sort. When 
Christmas come, Susy went all ’roun’ an’ ast 
folks t’ her weddin’. Nobody know’d who it 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


295 


was she’s goin’ t’ marry, but ever’body know’d 
in reason hit’s Sam Short er Josiah Tuttle. 
Susy was the devilishest young fool, jes’ like 
all gals, an’ some don’t git over their devilment 
atter they marry nuther,” with a glance at 
Sister Amos. 

“Tell on,” meekly. Sister Amos spoke. 

“The day fo’ Christmas up driv Sam Short 
an’ whilste they’s eatin’ supper in steps Josiah 
Tuttle hisse’f, big es life. Sam was as full o’ 
devilment as Josiah’s full o’ religion, but Mis 
Smith was hard to fool, all the time she’s a 
seein’ thro Josiah’s pious streak. That night 
both them sweet’arts o’ Susy’s went back in 
the side room t’ sleep. Josiah draw’d his bible 
an’ commenced t’ read ’loud all ’bout Moses an’ 
the ’Gypsians. Sam he stood it purty well ’till 
Josiah bawled out a singing ‘Come, ’umble 
sinner’ an’ Sam ast him t’ shet up so’s he could 
git t’ sleep ; but Josiah kep’ a bawlin’ an’ Sam 
turned over an’ snored ah’ snawted scan’lus 
loud. Josiah sings an’ bawls louder, an’ Sam 
keep up with his snorin’ an’ snawtin’. Atter 
while Mis Smith — ” 

“Come in to dinner.” Sister Evans stood 
in the door waiting. 

“You must finish after dinner,” Sister 
Brodnax said, with a persuasive smile. 

Sister Mackey was first to respond. 

“Jes keep her in the State o’ Georgy two 
hours longer an’ we won’t hear a word of — ” 


296 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Hush !’’ warned Sister Brodnax, as they, 
too, followed, “I must g*o and see Sister Kemp 
after dinner,” Sister Brodnax said. 

“I will go with you, will you let me?” 
laughed Sister Amos. 

An hour later the little party were again 
seated in the front room, each afraid of Sister 
Mackey’s investigative disposition. 

Sister Brodnax suggested, in her pleasant 
way, that the story be continued. 

“Yes, tell about Susy’s sweet’arts,” hop- 
ing to keep Sister Mackey in the “State of 
Georgy” for Arkansaw did not seem to agree 
with her. 

“Well,” she began, reflectively, smoking 
her pipe, “Mis Smith heerd the racket an’ went 
an’ knocked on the door an’ ast ‘what’s the 
matter?’ Sam he hollered ‘it’s Josiah bawlin’; 
then Josiah he hollered ‘Sam’s a snorin’. Well, 
atter a while they all went to sleep and Josiah 
he pertends t’ be sleep too, an’ a dreamin’ he’s 
a exhortin’ at a big meetin’, he bangs Sam over 
the head with his fist an’ tells him ‘t’ come out 
on the Bawd’s side ;’ then lams away ag’in. 
Then Sam riz an’ give him the awfullest beatin’ 
a man ever toted ; he laid right thar in that 
bed six weeks gittin’ well o’ that maulin’.” 

“Which did she marry?” 

“Nair one. Susy marr’d a one-eyed pedlar 
naix day. She laughed fit t’ kill herse’f ’bout 
Sam a beatin’ Josiah up so bad.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


297 


“Well, I must g-o see ’bout Sister Kemp,” 
Sister Amos said, folding up her work, “Come 
go with me,” when Sisters Beard and Brodnax 
had made their adieux. 

“Now, you see how it is,” Sister Amos 
said, as the three walked down the sandy road 
leading to Mrs. Kemp’s. 

“All Sister Mackey needs is to be kep’ in 
the State o’ Georgy.” 

“Iva, Tildy!” 

“Hit’s so, an’ then there’s no harm done or 
said.” 

“After this, when she branches off on 
somebody’s charac:ter jes set her over in Georgy 
among the ’simmon trees an’ bed quilts an’ 
she’s harmless es well es happy,” Sister Amos 
said earnestly. 

“That’s so,” smiled Sister Brodnax. 

“Then keep her in Georgy.” 

‘ ‘We will, ” Sister Beard solemnly promised. 



298 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


MRS. SMITH. 


T he rain came down as if the floodg-ates of 
heaven were open, and even the bright 
gossip of my lively little neighbor, who had 
“dropped in” early, failed to dispel the gloom 
of damp-laden air and lowering, leaden skies. 

“There they have been these eight months!” 
Mrs. Shaw was saying, “and we know no more 
of them than if they lived in Africa. I wonder 
why they ever came to Greenbriar ? ‘Live in 
their own house?’ Of course they do, and a 
beautiful price they paid for it, too.” 

Mrs. Shaw stopped for sheer want of 
breath, but again taking heart, began : 

“‘Delicate!’ not a bit of it ! ‘Literary?’ 
Perhaps,” Mrs. Shaw said doubtfully. “One 
thing is sure, / shall never go there again. The 
idea of that queer looking old woman saying 
with her high-and-mighty air, ‘My mistress 
does not see strangers, please excuse.’ Every 
one else who has gone gets the same answer. 
I don’t understand. ‘My mistress’ had better 
stayed away from Greenbriar.” 

Ah, Mrs. Shaw! 

All attempts to “pump” the little six-year- 
old girl or the close-mouthed man-servant were 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


299 


futile, and Mrs. Smith remained mistress of 
the situation. She attended services at the 
little church once a week with the little g*irl ; 
went driving* or walking, but never went visits 
ing. She dressed plainly but elegantly, and 
Greenbriar was on tiptoe to know more about 
her. 

“The Willows,” a handsome old house, 
with extensive grounds, had been purchased 
and set in order weeks before Mrs. Smith’s 
advent, and upon taking possession, they had 
arrived in the night, so no one knew how many 
of the Smith family, except Mrs. Smith, the 
little girl and the two servants, lived at The 
Willows. Each inhabitant of the village of 
Greenbriar had his or her theory regarding the 
Smith’s. One thought she was a widow ; an- 
other felt that she was an old maid — she was 
so demure ; another knew she was a deserted 
wife, and still another vetoed the idea of her 
being a widow because “she wasn’t frisky 
enough.” No one could guess her age — she 
was neither young nor old. Sometimes her 
hair was reported blonde and again it was 
sworn to be as dark as a raven’s wing. 

The minister at last made bold to call at 
The Willows. The same stony face, with its 
framing of white hair, startled him, the same 
words from “my mistress” were spoken, with 
“for the church” added, as she gave him a. 


300 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


sealed envelope. Bye and bye, as time flew on, 
gossips sought more inviting, better-paying 
subjects than the Smiths of The Willows. 
Some one has written, “A woman’s mind is a 
curious thing, like an old gothic castle, full of 
turnings and windings, long, dark passages, 
spiral staircases and secret corners. Among 
these architectural involutions her ideas go 
wandering about very much at random ; often 
they go tripping gaily along when a door opens 
and in comes another idea which turns the first 
one back and then blows the light out.” 

But Mrs. Shaw’s idea seemed never to lose 
itself ; no matter how intricate the mazes of 
its entanglement among other subjects, the 
one hope and object of her life now seemed 
hedged about with Smiths. She thought 
Smiths, dreamed Smiths, and the few quiet 
moments of her days were devoted to specu- 
lations of the Smiths of The Willows. Mrs. 
Shaw’s interest never wavered, and though she 
was warned by a playful friend that “curiosity 
once killed a cat,” she persistently pursued her 
investigations, her advantage lay in living near 
The Willows, and as her location was higher, 
she saw much more than the average citizen. 

“There’s somebody sick at ‘The Willows!’ ” 
she exclaimed, breathlessly, about a year after 
Greenbriar had settled down to a pleasant 
quiescence on the Smith question. “How do I 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


301 


know, indeed !” I saw him, the old man was 
rolling- him ’round in an invalid’s chair. If I 
could find Tom’s old field-g-lasses that he used 
during the war, I could see better — everything, 
in fact, from the garret window.” Mrs. Shaw 
was in an excited state when she left. 

Later, the same friend who had warned 
her of the fate of the cat, came by, bearing a 
pair of old-fashioned field-glasses. “Won’t 
she be in clover? I am taking Tom Shaw’s old 
glasses home to aid and abet his wife in attend- 
ing to other people’s affairs,” and with a laugh 
Mrs. Sallie Kirk went her way. 

“What do you think!” Mrs. Shaw burst in 
next morning, “would you believe that that 
saintly-looking Mrs. Smith actually has a fris- 
oner at The Willows?” 

“Nonsense!” 

“No nonsense about it! I saw it all as 
plainly as I see you. His hands were strapped 
down to the arms of the chair. Oh, it’s hor- 
rible!” 

Mrs. Shaw’s pretty face was in a thousand 
wrinkles when she gave this bit of news, and 
her inquisitive black eyes had an I-told-you-so 
expression as she shook her head, knowingly, 
and went on, “Sallie Kirk brought Tom’s old 
field-glasses home yesterday — a perfect God- 
send — for I didn’t know where they were, and 
I need them so much just now.” 


302 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


A recollection of Mrs. Kirk’s remarks 
brought an involuntary laugh. 

“I can’t see anything amusing in The Wil- 
lows’ people. For my part, I think they are 
awful., perfectly shavieful T'' 

“What’s the latest?” Mrs. Kirk, who had 
stolen in unobserved, inquired. 

“Oh, Sallie! It’s shocking the way things 
are going on at The Willows! Perfectly awfulT' 

“Mrs. Kirk’s fun-loving soul almost bub- 
bled over ; she dared not look up, but carefully 
examined a bit of fancy work on the table. 

“Well, what is it?” she managed to ask. 

“That saintly, sweet, angelic Mrs. Smith 
actually has a poor, blind prisoner at The Wil- 
lows — strapped down in a chair! Think of it, 
Sallie!” 

“Going to electrocute him?” 

“Worse than that ; a living death is worse 
than a — than — ” 

“A very dead death,” Mrs. Kirk supplied 
with a smothered giggle. ’ 

“Good morning! What are you three dis- 
cussing so earnestly you did not hear me rap?” 

Ah, Mrs. Sly! Your name is legion! Now 
the circle was complete, for what Mrs. Shaw’s 
fertile imagination lacked Mrs. Sly’s inventive 
genius made up a thousand fold. 

“What were you talking about?” 

“Those heathens at The Willows,” Mrs. 
Shaw replied with a shiver of disgust. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


303 


“Any of ’em dead?” 

“They had better be. That poor man tied 
hard and fast in a chair, screaming- at the top 
of his voice for mercy. It’s the most terrible 
affair Greenbriar ever knew!” 

“Good King- David!” exclaimed Mrs. Sly, 
putting- on her g-lasses. “Why, honey, that’s 
avjful! Who is he?” 

“I don’t know ; but you never heard of 
such g-oing-s on.” 

“She wouldn’t exchang-e that for aThanks- 
g-iving- dinner,” soto voce from Sallie Kirk. 

“If you could see what I saw yesterday,” 
continued Mrs. Shaw, “you would say it was 
awful.” 

“The story g-rows apace,” whispered Sal- 
lie Kirk ; “it expands with every telling-. She 
will electrocute every blessed Smith in another 
hour, without judg-e or jury.” 

Mrs. Shaw and Mrs. Sly sat very near 
each other in the bow window. Mrs. Kirk sat 
near me at the table. “Listen, the story g-rows 
wondrous strang-e,” she whispered. 

“You wouldn’t believe a woman could 
so cruel,” Mrs. Shaw was saying-, “but that 
woman seems to fairly gloat over his misery ; 
she walked by that chair and laug-hed, yes, 
laughed at the suffering-s of that poor, dear, 
old man.” 

“Did you see his face?” Mrs. Sly asked. 


304 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“No, not exactly. She held an umbrella 
over him, and the man pushed the chair, and 
she kept the umbrella turned towards my 
house. Oh, he suffered terribly !” 

“Ice cream and strawberries — not to be 
thought of — no swap there,” again whispered 
Sallie Kirk. 

“It’s a shame, a perfect scandal !” from 
Mrs. Sly. 

“Of course it is. The idea of that poor, 
pitiful thing being strapped down in that chair! 
I never heard of the like, did you?” 

“Never !” Mrs. Sly asserted with truth. 

An hour later Mrs. Shaw had advertised 
the news over one end of Greenbriar, while 
Mrs. Sly told more than she knew from house 
to house. Ever}^ telling more horrible and 
more hair-raising than the preceding. Within 
a week the whole country rang with the shame 
of the story. The local newspaper took up 
the theme under startling headlines, and the 
editor, in sweet consideration, sent a copy to 
The Willows. Every wife told her husband — 
as women will do — and they, poor things, for- 
getting their manhood, stood on the post-office 
corner and talked scandal by the hour. 

For several months nothing was done to- 
ward clearing up the mystery of The Willows. 
The only native of Greenbriar who was inno- 
cent in thought or mood toward the Smiths was 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


305 


a little blind boy, whose chief pleasure was in 
feeding his pet hens and piping in childish 
treble his one song : 

“Mr. Coon has got a bushy tail, 

Mr. 'Possum’s tail is bare, 

Mr. Rabbit’s got no tail at all, 
’Cept’n a little bunch o’ hair!” 

In the midst of all, Mrs. Smith attended 
church regularly, went driving or walking with 
her little girl, and made no sign of a conscious- 
ness of having disturbed the peace or of being 
the subject of such anxious thought of her 
neighbors. At last the minister, blinded by a 
mistaken sense of duty and 2;eal withal, ven- 
tured once more to invade the privacy of The 
Willows. 

The grounds were spacious, and well kept 
and as the good man did not belong to the Peter 
Bell family, he strolled about the beautiful 
grounds surrounding the castle-like dwelling, 
admiring the prodigality of shrubs and flowers, 
until he saw, under a tree, the party about 
whom all Greenbriar wondered. Mrs. Smith 
arose from her garden chair when the minister 
approached, and bade him welcome. In a 
wheeled chair near by sat a contented looking 
old woman, whose hair gleamed white under 
a dainty lace cap. 

“My grandmother,” Mrs. Smith said, 
smilingly. 

20 


306 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“And this,” presenting* the little g’irl. “is 
my orphan niece. We are all that are left of a 
larg*e family.” 

The minister was amazed at her ease and 
grace. 

“Did you know — ” he began, but embar- 
rassment shut off his words. 

“Oh!” Mrs. Smith laughed, “did I know 
all ; all that has been said of us ? I hope so, 
for, verily, enough has already reached me.” 

The grandmother joined in the laugh, 
which but added to the visitor’s misery. 

It has amused me greatly; in fact, it has 
really been our only amusement since coming 
to The Willows,” Mrs. Smith assured him. 

“But—” 

“‘Curiosity killed a cat,’ you have, no 
doubt, heard. I heard that the town of Green- 
briar was the queen of gossips only after I had 
bought The Willows ; but I came here for rest 
and quiet — for my grandmother especially, and 
have been thus far practically successful in 
enjoying an ideal peace. We are busy every 
day studying, teaching, and enjoying each 
other,” Mrs. Smith explained. 

“I am the reported victim,” the grand- 
mother remarked, with a twinkle in her faded 
eyes.” 

“Of paralysis yes — but not of electricity,” 
Mrs. Smith laughed. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


307 


“Upon my word!” gasped the minister, 
unable still to grasp the absurdity of the whole 
story. 

“She’s up in that window again,” the little 
girl spoke for the first time, glancing up at the 
house across the road. 

“She enjoys it, leave her alone, dear. I 
am always pleased to have people enjoy them- 
selves,” Mrs. Smith added. 

Across the way — away up in a garret win- 
dow — Mrs. Shaw was making observations with 
“Tom’s field-glasses.” 

“I should not have lived so exclusively, 
perhaps, had I not heard so much of the gossip- 
ing proclivities of this town, and as even my 
mail matter is criticised, my uprisings and my 
sittings down noted, and reported maliciously 
incorrect I am now more firmly resolved than 
ever before to hold no manner of intercourse 
with these Greenbriar people,” Mrs. Smith 
declared. 

“I will correct — ” the minister began. 

“Do not, I beg of you, for as long as I am 
the target some one else is spared ; so leave 
them alone. ‘Ephriam is joined to his idols.” 

“There are some good people here.’ ” 

“I dare say. Their impossible stories in- 
dicate genius, at least. I have neither time nor 
inclination for winnowing the wheat from the 
chaff.” 


308 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


Mrs. Smith evidently meant what she said ; 
though her brown eyes shown with amusement, 
and smiles chased each other over her hand- 
some, high-bred face. The minister rose to 
depart. 

“I am pleased that you called to-day, but 
do not trouble yourself to explain my position. 
If I associated with these people I should find 
peaceful quiet a fleet Atalanta, and content a 
myth.” 

Mrs. Smith was “having it out” with the 
minister — with that get-even- with-you propen- 
sity inherent in women long before the oak, 
against which she leaned, was a sleeping germ 
in a rusty acorn cup. 

Every day, for ten consecutive days after 
the minister’s visit a stream of visitors poured 
into the gates of The Willows lawn, only to be 
stopped at the small inner gate behind which 
a big dog barked warningly. For once perse- 
verance failed to prove a success, and the town 
of Greenbriar gave the Smiths up as incompre- 
hensible. “Tom’s field-glasses” were once 
more relegated to oblivion’s dust, and the gos- 
sips sought fresh victims. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


309 


^^SANCTERFERCA TIONF 


V HERE the witch ha2;els grew thickest, 
where the song-s of the birds were sweet- 
est, and the rush and ripple of the little creek 
clearest and most musical, was a square log* 
church whose cong-regation “the world forget- 
ting, by the world forgot” worshipped in Ar- 
cadian simplicity and content. 

Both doors of the church were wide open 
that pleasant April day and Sister Beard, with 
the sleeves of her calico dress rolled back, 
swept the floor, under the seats, back of the 
doors, everywhere that searching, scratching 
broom swished industriously. And as she 
swept, she sang of that beautiful land so far 
away to most folks, but to her very near. Now 
and again she talked it to Sister Mackey, who 
sat on the steps. 

“They say,” Sister Mackey observed, “that 
Tildy Amos have perfessed sancterfercation — 
what d’ you think of that?'*'' 

“I hain’t thought,” Sister Beard answered, 
wiping the perspiration from her honest old 
face. “I call it a sin an’ a shame f’ anybody t’ 
perfess sancterfercation, much less a young 
thing like ’Tildy.” 


310 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


“It’s pow’ful hot in here,” Sister Beard 

said. 

“Yes’m,” Sister Mackey conceded. “It’s 
rale warm f’ the time o’ year. ‘Tildy Amos 
perfessin sancterfercation do settle her with 
me.” 

“Why?” Sister Beard felt obliged to ask. 
“Why? Goodness greshus !” 

Sister Beard lifted her faded eyes — eyes 
with the light of the New Jerusalem shining 
away down in their quiet depths and smiled 
pityingly. 

“Tildy ’s a good neighbor, a mighty free- 
hearted neighbor, an’ a workin’ equinomicle 
wife f’ Dick. Dick Amos is about all they is 
in Canaan whot ain’t got his Ian’ an’ stock 
mortgaged.” Sister Beard here spied a streak 
of sand near the “mourner’s bench” and has- 
tened to the extermination thereof. 

Sister Mackey still sat on the steps, knit- 
ting, her brown sunbonnet pushed back, and a 
pair of silver-bowed spectacles adorned her 
high, aggressive nose. 

“Ain’t that ’Tildy Amos a-comin’ ?” she 
asked, when a glimpse of a blue sunbonnet ap- 
peared adown the dim path through the oaks. 

“That’s ’Tildy! Don’t she look fraish an’ 
nice? ’Tildy always looks good t’ me.” 

Sister Beard now stood on a bench sweep- 
ing down the walls. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


311 


Every log in the old square church was 
sacredly dear to her ; here her children one by 
one had vowed their solemn obligations to “one 
Ivord, one faith and one baptism,” and down 
yonder in the creek each had been “dipped” 
according to their mother’s belief as to the way 
He “went down into Jordan.” Here had been 
preached the funeral sermons of those two 
bright boys of her’s, who fell at Shiloh. 

A feeling of submission held her soul this 
morning. She did not misunderstand it, the 
very air was palpitant with loving sympa- 
thy, from out the folded blue above the little 
church, voices breathed benedictions doubly 
blest, and now no dark clouds lowered over her 
soul to obscure the visions that the strength 
and yearning of mother-love might bring. The 
time had passed when in her agony she won- 
dered that the whole world did not weep for 
her sorrow ; that the sun could shine on, the 
birds sjng, the seasons come and go. 

No wonder Sister Beard loved the old 
church at Canaan. 

“I’m goin’ t’ ast Tildy ’bout sancterferca- 
tion biznis,” Sister Mackey declared as the 
notes of a song came to her antiquated ears — a 
song of that same happy Land so far away. 

“Ain’t this old Gray?” Sister Beard asked, 
referring to an old gray horse contentedly crop- 
ping the grass near the door. 


312 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“Same old Gray.” 

“Don’t he las’ good, though?” 

“Toted pap all endurin’ the four years o’ 
the war an’ made a crap ever’ year since, didn’t 
yer Gray? Tuck pap safe through fire an’ 
smoke an’ bullets, yes, yer did.” Sister Mackey 
said proudly. 

Many a story could old Gray have told of 
the “four years he toted pap” — of hard marches 
and changing scenes when 

“Such a din was there, 

As if men fought on earth below 
And fiends in upper air.” 

“I recollect. He wasn’t mor’n a colt then.” 

Sister Beard would fain have kept Sister 
Mackey’s thoughts on any other subject than 
“sancterfercation but she was fated to fail. 

“Thar’s ’Tildy! I’m sholy goin’ t’ ast 
her,” Sister Mackey declared, as she rose and 
advanced to meet Sister Amos. 

Sister Mackey was the critic of Canaan — 
an uncompromising, wet-blanket sort of critic, 
whose edicts, though rough and sometimes al- 
most brutal, often corrected follies and con- 
ceits, and had her criticisms been carefully and 
wisely administered, much good might have 
resulted ; but alas! Sister Mackey’s judgments 
were not always infallible for the spirit of 
criticism is invariably capricious. 

“Howdy, Sister Mackey.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


313 


The pleasant greeting was ignored. Sis- 
ter Mackey squared herself across the narrow 
path and began the attack. 

“Tildy Amos, do yer perfess sancterferca- 
tion?” she demanded. Even the ruffle on her 
sunbonnet shivered with sacrilegious horror. 

Sister Amos’ blue eyes expanded, a smile 
hovered for a moment over her good-natured, 
freckled face, she said nothing. 

“Tildy Amos, do yer perfess sancterferca- 
tion ?’’ 

“Sposen I do ?” 

“Goodness greshus !” 

“Ain’t this a free country and don’t even 
a nigger believe what he wants t’? I can’t see 
why ef I want to I can’t believe in sancterfer- 
cation, do you?” Sister Amos appealed to Sis- 
ter Beard. “Religion’s free an’ God’s love’s 
mighty cheap — easy to get,” Sister Beard an- 
swered her. 

“I’m proud t’ hear somethin’s cheap an’ 
easy t’ git — the fust I’ve heerd of;” Sister 
Mackey’s sarcasm was wilting. 

“Come on, Tildy !” 

“I caint!” laughed Sister Amos pointing 
to Sister Mackey’s tall figure barring the path. 
“I want t’ know mo’ ’bout that sancterferca- 
tion biznis, Matildy Amos !” 

“ ’Tain’t no mo’ t’ it.” 

“But thar is,” Sister Mackey insisted. 


314 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


turning* her back and walking slowly towards 
the church. 

“I don’t see no use,” Sister Amos com- 
plained, when the three were seated on the 
steps. “I don’t see no use in Sister Mackey a 
everlastin’ly hauling folks over the coals jes 
cos they don’t think like her.” 

Sister Beard had found her knitting and 
calmly worked as she enjoyed the fresh fra- 
grance that was afloat in the dense forest 
about them and among the witch hazel bushes, 
now and again a radiating shaft of sunlight 
from out the drifting clouds glorified bush and 
tree and sky ; but Sister Mackey was blind to 
nature’s beauteous exhibition. 

“I ain’t quarrelin’, Tildy, all I want t’ 
know is ’bout that sancterfercation biznis.” 

“Spose yer tell us what that is,” Sister 
Beard ventured. 

“I’ve know’d lots of preachers whot per- 
fessed sancterfercation,” Sister Amos said; “an’ 
maybe so noboddy but a preacher’s got a right 
to perfess sancterfercation.” 

“Oh, yes, they is,” from Sister Beard. 

“But,” Sister Mackey edged in, “ ’taint 
ever’ preacher es can perfess sich.” 

“Now, Sister Mackey, ‘jedge not.” 

“A preacher is the very lark that made 
me sick o’ perfessin’ sancterfercation. I 
knowd a preacher back in Georgy what uster 
preach an’ pray an’ take on much.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


315 


“That was his biznis — ef he’s a preacher.” 

“Yes, Sister Beard, but it wasn’t his 
biznis t’ beat his po’ wife t’ death ever’ day.” 

“She was tollerble tough t’ stan’ it,” Sis- 
ter Amos giggled. 

“Brother Perkins was his name,” continued 
Sister Mackey, “an’ he could preach, too — an’ 
pray! I woosh t yer could aheerd him !” 

“Bless the Lord!” Sister Beard ejaculated. 

“Fer a change. Brother Perkins ’d go off 
in a trance big meetin’ times an’ take on rale 
pitterful.” 

“Amen!” Sister Beard exclaimed, drop- 
ping her knitting. 

“Then naix day. Brother Perkins would 
whirl in an’ beat Sister Perkins mighty nigh 
daid an’ slap the chillen ’roun’ scand’lous.” 

“Po’ little things !” 

“One day at camp meetin’ Brother Perkins 
told ever’body he was so sancterfied he could 
not never do wrong no mo’, his old daddy-in- 
law was a layin’ f’ him — he’d been ahearin’ 
how mean he was t’ Sallie, an’ the old man had 
rid fawty mile t’ settle with Brother Perkins.” 

“What did he do?” 

“Jes wait till I set this heel.” 

“Well,” Sister Mackey went on, after a 
moment’s silence. 

“Sister Perkins lived five mile from the 
camp groun’ an’ the old man never stayed t’ 


316 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


night meetin’, but went on to see Sallie. He 
went t’ bed soon’s night come an’ slep’ in a 
side room naix t’ Sallie an’ the chillen. She’d 
done told her pap how mean Brother Perkins is 
an’ the old man ’lowed ^he'd sancterfy him.’ ” 

“I wonder !” 

“Sister Perkins got a beatin’ f’ ever’ san- 
terfercation sermont Brother Perkins preached, 
an’ f’ ever’ trance they all got wore out bod- 
daciously. 

“To’des midnight that night, Brother Per- 
kins rid inter the yard an’ he hollered. 

“‘Come git this hawse, Sallie, an’ feed 
him.’ 

“‘Peed the hawse yerse’f,’ Sallie ’lowed. 

“She felt sassy knowin’ her pap’s right thar 
dost by. 

“Brother Perkins jumped inter the door a 
fumin’ an’ snawtin’ an’ the old man jumped 
out’n bed an’ lit right in a fightin’ o’ him. 

“ ‘Git them switches, Sallie,’ her pap hol- 
lered, an’ then he tied Brother Perkins an’ 
made Sister Perkins han’le them hick’ries in a 
hurry.” 

“Laws a me! switched her husband!” 

“Jes’ ’bout es fa’r es f’ him t’ switch /^^r, 
ain’t it? Then the old man took a han’ an’, 
twixt ’em. Brother Perkins didn’t have much 
sancterfercation left f’ naix day’s trance. The 
old man’d give him a lick an’ say ‘that’s f’ that 


MAGNOLIAS ALBOOM. 


317 


sancterfercation then he’d light in agin an^ 
yell out ‘this kyores trances/ an’ he kep’ on a 
kyorin sancterfercation an’ trances ’til he wore 
Brother Perkins t’ a thin frazzjle.” 

“I do declar’!” Sister Beard was shocked. 

“Brother Perkins was a mighty fine man 
after that. Sallie’d got the upper hand an’ she 
kep’ it too.” 

“He never preached no mo’.” 

“I say! Brother Perkins was ’lected bishop 
after he got rid o’ sancterfercation. Preach? 
I reckin he did. An’ mor’n that, Sallie made 
him cook an’ wash an’ work the gyarden an’ 
he never beat her no mo’ — never had no mo^ 
trance spells, no sancterfercation neether. Oh, 
Brother Perkins was a mighty fine man after 
his daddy-in-law kyored him o’ trances an’ 
sancterfercation notions.” 

“That’s what yer ’spi2je sancterfercation 
like pizen fer?” Sister Amos laughed. 

“Lord he’p us,” breathed Sister Beard. 

“Yer hit the nail squar’ on ther haid, Ma- 
tildy Amos.” 

Sister Beard arose and walked toward the 
witch hazels, a cute little wood-violet peeped 
timidly from its green bed, and Sister Beard 
smiled upon it, then stooping she plucked it. 

“Sorter lonesome, ain’t yer?” she cooed as 
to a little child, her pure soul feeling a kinship 
in each azure petal. 


318 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


In her imag’ining's of the Better Band, Sis- 
ter Beard pictured “the fields of living- g-reen” 
all dotted over with blue violets, white lillies 
and daisies — with an occasional creek in which 
to “dip” the “sprinkled” candidate for joys 
eternal. The fancies of her hig-h-strung, sen- 
sitive soul were to her a precious boon. She 
found “tongues in trees, books in running 
brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every- 
thing.” So tangible, so real did it all seem to 
her as she stood ’neath the shifting light and 
coloring of that April sky that all that seemed 
lacking was the power to raise her helpless 
hands and rent in twain the inscrutable veil 
that separated soul from soul ; her boys were 
just a little beyond, a little higher. 

Sister Beard’s simple faith rose above the 
mouldering bones of her dead sorrow, 

“For life is ever lord of death, 

And love shall never lose its own.” 

“Come back here, Sister Beard! What’re 
yer standing’ thar lookin’ so cur’is fer? 

“In a trance?” Sister Amos laughed. 

“Sister Beard don’t live down in Canaan 
with us, nohow ; she’s always a soarin’.” Sis- 
ter Mackey complained. 

“Maybeso; she’s perfessed sancterferca- 
tion,” Sister Amos laughed again. 

“We heard so much ’bout Brother Per- 
kins.” 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


319 


“Well,” Sister Mackey yawned, folding- up 
her knitting, “I got t’ go home an’ see ’bout 
pap’s dinner — he don’t call nothin’ dinner ef 
the pot ain’t b’iled. When yer cornin’, Tildy?” 
she asked, when, with many grunts, she had 
crawled atop her saddle on old Gray. 

“I’m cornin’ ’fo’ long; you come,” Sister 
Amos said, handing her a switch. 

“Ef yer can stay on the yerth long ’nuf 
come t’ see us. Sister Beard!” Sister Mackey 
called, as she trotted down the big road. 

“I will ; you come.” 

Sister Beard now stood inside the church 
looking searchingly up and down and around. 
She gave the big Bible on the “stand” a thor- 
ough dusting with her apron, and coming out 
locked the doors. 

“Brother Polk ’ll find the meetin’ house 
clear t’morrer, won’t he?” 

“I hope so; ain’t he a good man, Tildy?” 

“Do he perfess sancterfercation ?” Sister 
Amos asked with a mischievous twinkle in her 
blue eyes. 

“Not as I know of. Brother Polk’s a 
mighty good man, ’Tildy.” 

“He ain’t as good as you air, then I ain’t 
goin’ t’ wait till yer’s daid t’ say what 1 know. 
You’re the best woman I know ’cept’n ’tis 
niaw,” declared Sister Amos, as they walked 
away. 


320 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM, 


“Iva, Tildy!” 

“Yes’m, I say it now an’ I say it ergin, 
Sister Beard’s the bes’ woman in Canaan ’cept’n 
maw, ever’body ’ll tell you so. Why don’t you 
perfess sancterfercation, Sister Beard?” 

“ ’Tildy Amos !” 

“If I was es good es you I’d — ” 

“No, Tildy, chile, not till I git up yawnder 
with my boys, then I’ll be plum sanctifide — 
won’t I, Tildy?” Sister Beard’s eyes had the 
New Jerusalem light in them again. 

“Yes’m,” Sister Amos said softly. 

“Yes’m, then you can perfess an’ persess 
too, all sorts an’ a heap of sancterfercation — 
all you’ll ever need.” 

“Bless the Lord !” cried Sister Beard when 
they separated. 

“We’ll git thar, Tildy !” 

“Or die a tryin’!” Sister Amos responded. 

And as each walked her respective home- 
ward path they sang of that far away land. 



MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


321 


A LOWLY HERO. 


IKE RASSELAS, the Abyssinian, we lived 



I ^ the balmy days “only to know the soft 
vicissitudes of pleasure and repose.” We 
wandered “in gardens of fragrance and slept 
in fortresses of security but like all pleasure 
seekers, we were now weary of the monotonous 
round of uneventful days, and former delights 
grew stale. Gentle Mrs. Gray and Miss Har- 
land, the invalid whose thin, scarlet cheeks 
and bright eyes told too plainly the presence of 
the destroyer, the quiet rector and the some- 
what pompous major, with his little blonde 
wife, made up our party. 

“Some one tell a story, please,” cooed the 
pretty blonde, tossing aside “Hero Worship.” 
“Who ever knew a live hero?” she laughingly 
asked. 

“I have,” promptly answered Mrs. Gray. 

“How delightful ! Do tell us about him ; 
who was he?” 

“The one instance of true heroism that 
came under my immediate notice,” said the little 
woman, “was displayed by a hero of ebon hue, 
a strong young Hercules, who, though rough 


21 


322 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


and untaught, possessed a nature grand, deep 
and noble.” 

“Yes,” assented the sentimental major. 
“Often among the humblest flowers we find 
the rarest odors.” 

“And,” resumed Mrs. Gray, “among the 
busy workers, with hardened hands and toil- 
stained faces, we find great hearts, strong and 
true, and minds, though uncultivated, ready 
and sagacious. During the late war,” she con- 
tinued, “my father and brother were in the 
army, and the overseer being drafted into ser- 
vice, my mother, my sisters and myself were 
compelled to leave our beautiful home in the 
city and go up the river to the plantation to 
manage, as best we could, the affairs of that 
place. Our people were trustworthy and kind, 
so we had but little trouble. A few weeks 
after our arrival at the plantation our hearts 
were saddened by the death of a much-loved 
servant — Rachel was her name ; she had nursed 
my mother’s older children, and we were all 
very much attached to her. Rachel died sud- 
denly, of heart trouble, the physician said, and 
her little children were cared for by a good old 
granny. Albert, the husband of Rachel, was 
a ‘field hand,’ and a reliable man.” 

“Of what time do you speak?” 

“This was in the spring of 1864. The 
trans-Mississippi department was under the 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


323 


command of the Confederate general, E. Kirby 
Smith. The struggle east of the Mississippi 
river had drawn from us the chivalry of the 
great Southwest ; the sons of Arkansas, Mis- 
sissippi, Louisiana and Texas were scattered 
from Gettysburg to Vicksburg, and a dimin- 
ished force composed of the fathers and hus- 
bands were left to meet the gathering foe that 
threatened, with General Steele at Little Rock, 
Ark., and General Banks at Alexandria, La. 
The conscript bureau had gleaned the fields of 
the last of the ‘bearded grain,’ and nothing 
was left but ‘the flowers that grew between’ — 
the boys too young to go far from home, realiz- 
ing now the danger coming so near, as fast as 
allowed repaired to camps, and yet the force 
was not large enough. 

“Then a new order came, and the men- 
slaves were impressed and sent to the shops as 
laborers and teamsters in the various depart- 
ments, to fill such places as they could, in order 
that for every slave so employed another soldier 
could be relieved and go to the front. The bur- 
den of feeding and clothing the army devolved 
upon- the women of the South. Cheerfully, 
and with untold sacrifices, did they do their 
part. Our people did not escape the impress- 
ment law.” 

“Excuse me, but whom do you mean by ‘our 
people?’ ” chirped the beauty from the ham- 
mock. 


324 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“We called our slaves ‘our people,’” re- 
sponded Mrs, Gray with a smile. “They were 
impressed into service and sent to Shreveport, 
La., to work. Among the men was one who 
had been married only a year ; he objected to 
leaving his wife and baby. Jake was his name. 
While they were discussing the question among 
themselves, Albert presented himself at the 
dining-room door. 

“‘Good mawnin’, mistis,’ he said, doffing 
his hat, ‘an’ skuse me fo’ ’sturbin’ yer brekfus, 
but Ise axin a favor dis mawnin’. 

“ ‘All right, Albert. What is it?’ asked 
my mother. 

“ ‘Yer see, mistis, as how Jake is ‘’pressed’ 
along wid tudder niggers an’ Jake he got a 
likely wife an’ mighty antic boy.’ 

“ ‘Well?” 

“Albert hesitated and scratched his wooly 
pate. 

“ ‘I know,’ my mother said sympathetic- 
ally, ‘I know all the circumstances, but am 
powerless.’ 

“ ‘I aint blamin’ yer, mistis ; de Lawd 
knows I aint er blamin’ nobody; but I druther 
go in Jake’s place an’ let him stay wid hees 
wife an’ boy.’ 

“‘Why, Albert!’ exclaimed my mother. 
‘You can’t mean it ! How should I get along 
without you ? Think of the number of women 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


325 


and children to be provided for ; the men left 
behind are too old and the boys too young to be 
depended on.’ 

“ ‘I’se recommembrin’ all dat, mistis ; but 
I knows what it is for a man an’ wife to be 
sipperated. Oh, mistis ! de days all lonesome 
and de nights a year long. Taint no sunshine 
for Albut here nor nowhar. Hits all a dark 
shadder an’ de moonshine don’t nigh tech Al- 
but. No, mistis, hits all trial an’ tribberla- 
shins. Hemme go, please, mistis. Let Jake 
stay wid hees wife,’ plead the earnest voice, 
half choked by sobs. 

“Unk Albert,’ called my little sister going 
to his side, ‘would you really go away to save 
Jake from going ?’ 

“ ‘Yes, honey,’ he replied, his sorrowful 
eyes lighting up with a pleasant expression, as 
with his great black hand he stroked her sunny 
curls. ‘Yes, honey, Unk Albut ain’t got nuffin 
t’ stay here fer. Jake got hees wife. Honey, 
ax yer mudder t’ let ole Albut go.’ 

“ ‘Use your own pleasure, Albert,’ at last 
consented my mother. 

“ ‘De Lawd bress mistis!’ he cried as he 
hastened to the quarters. 

“ ‘De Lawd sabe mistis!’ echoes Uncle 
Gabe, waving his hat as he leaned on his 
crutch. 


326 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


“They left us that afternoon, one hundred 
tall, strong sons of Ham, of varying ages 
from twenty to forty-five years. 

“ ‘Albert,’ said my mother, ‘I must tell 
you before you go that in Shreveport men die 
at the rate of fifty a day, often the death rate 
is greater, the fever is terrible.’ 

“She looked up into his face, hoping by 
this last appeal to discourage his going. 

“ ‘Kain’ he’p it, mistis ; I spec hits ’bout 
es nigh a route to Hebbin by Shrebepote as hit 
air by dis plantashin. Albut aint keerin’, mis- 
tis, ka^e de big gates up yander’s wide open 
waitin’ fer Albut ; an’ Lawd ! Rachel’s er 
standin’ jes’ inside.’ 

“ ‘Boys !’ he cried, turning to the multitude 
assembled under the oaks on the lawn. ‘Boys, 
mind mistis, an’ do right an’ be bidderble. Be 
hones’, boys ; don’t go to cuttin’ up no disre- 
gyardable capers an’ pranks. Jes whirl in an’ 
up an’ make de crap fer mistis. Nebber mine 
de cotton, but ten’ de cawn ; plow deep,, boys, 
an’ don’t let de grass git de upper hand o’ de 
crap.’ 

“ ‘Move on there! Move on, boys!’ was 
commanded. 

^ “ ‘Good-by, mistis. Far’well, chillun !’ 
cried Albert. ‘Gawd bress mistis !’ 

“ ‘Gawd bress mistis!’ cried a chorus of 
an hundred voices as they marched away. 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


327 


“In these turbulent times there were no 
established mail routes in our country ; indeed, 
the receipt of a letter was quite an event. For 
two months we heard nothing* of our men ; then 
one ran away from Shreveport and came home 
more dead than alive. Of the hundred who 
had g*one from our plantation, twenty-two had 
died. Albert had been detailed on hospital 
duty, and before another month had passed he, 
too, had g*iven up the burden of life. Good, 
faithful Albert! Thoug*h he lives neither in 
song* nor story his was as grand a heroism as 
was ever recorded ; his Rachel waited just 
within ‘the big, white gate’ and waited not in 
vain.’’ Mrs. Gray had “tears in her voice” as 
she concluded her pathetic story. 

.“We brush the skirts of martyrs and tread 
the path with heroes and are all unmindful ; 
but God noteth all and will reward as surely 
as the day folio weth the dark night,” rever- 
ently spoke the white-haired rector, as we sat 
silent and thoughtful. 

“And it’s just as near Heaven by way of 
Silvandale as home,” murmured the invalid, 
folding her light wrap closer about her. 

The great umbrellas of the elders, white 
and tender, quivered in the sunlight above the 
pale forehead, and the blossoms permeated the 
balmy air with a delicate, grateful fragrance. 
Thickets of the slender golden-rod and a wild 


328 


MAGNOLIAS ABLOOM. 


rose twined about an old stump as if to convert 
their sweetness and beauty into a mantle of 
charity to hide its decaying* streng*th and sight- 
liness. Looking up through the shimmering 
leaves above into the pure sapphire dome be- 
yond, I thought of the hero who gave his life 
for his friend. After his “lonesome days” and 
weary nights he reached the haven. 

“ ‘And God shall wipe away all tears from 
their eyes,’ ” softly quoted the rector, as if fol- 
lowing the drift of my thoughts. “And there 
shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor cry- 
ing ; neither shall there be any more pain, for 
the former things are passed away.” 






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